The Dying of the Light
by sovery
Summary: The dark Victorian-era AU you probably never wanted. Angelus, newly returned to London, becomes obsessed with a newly orphaned debutante. Buffy is grieving and trying to adapt to London society with the help of her new friends and mysterious guardian when she meets a charismatic stranger who tempts her with intoxicating knowledge.
1. Chapter 1

_**This piece has been in the works since last summer, but I have been working on a lot of other long, ridiculous AUs and have been reluctant to post anything that's a work in progress since Blindness gave me so much trouble. I have the next few parts already written, so I hope that as I keep writing, I'll keep updating and your feedback will encourage me, and keep me on track with this story. My hope is that I will have this finished within the next few months, and that I'll do a better job posting and completing the longer-length pieces I have kicking around on my laptop.**_

 _ **All apologies for the formatting. I cannot manage indentations here and I feel that FFnet always foils my efforts to make things look readable.**_

 _ **A warning: this story does go places where my earlier pieces have not, and since this is never-been-cursed Angelus, I feel that to gloss entirely over his distasteful characteristics would be impossible. The next long story I am planning on finishing and posting will be an all-human AU, so rest assured it will be more palatable to the sensitive.**_

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Angelus inhaled deeply. The pretty tree-lined street that led to the townhouse he, Darla, Drusilla, and William had just procured was far cleaner than the rest of London, but he could still smell the tang of sweat, fear, arousal, and death that perfumed even the better class of neighborhoods. The house they'd taken residence in was a pristine brick and white plaster affair, with lovely wide windows that were being fitted with heavy drapes. They weren't sure quite how long they planned to stay in London, since he and Darla were prone to acting on a whim and might at some point need to leave in a hurry after slaughtering the neighbors, but he was keen to take advantage of all that London had to offer, particularly after spending so much time in Russia.

A bevy of well-dressed girls glanced sideways at him as he sauntered down the street and he gave them a wolfish smile as he continued toward the park, his destination for the evening. With all the arrangements to make the house suitable, there wasn't much time for prolonged entertainments tonight, but he was damned if he would pass his first night in the city without killing some hapless local.

There was something about London that he found very satisfying. It was one of the great capitals of the world, and like all of the great cities, there was splendor, luxury, and decadence on offer. London teemed with the rich and the powerful, as well as the pitiful and oppressed. Angelus enjoyed that dichotomy, the starving servant girls and their plump, pretentious masters, the splendor of the great houses and theatres, and the seedy squalor of the opium dens. London contained nearly everything a discerning man- or monster – could want and Angelus intended to enjoy its charms for a time.

After toying with a frightened couple who had snuck away to the park, their chosen local for some amorous activities, he made his kill and returned home satisfied. He had killed the woman first, her arousal still spicing her blood, and her lover had but up a better struggle – he hesitated to call it a fight – than usual. He whistled as he walked into the house. The door was unlocked.

William, his hair in a foppish disarray grinned at him, in a good mood with his grandsire for once. He was smoking on the stairs, shirt half undone when he raised a hand in careless greeting.

"Happy to be back in London, then?" Angelus grinned. Will merely shrugged in response, his half-smile not leaving his face. Angelus' next question didn't wipe it away but it certainly dimmed it.

"Dru upstairs?" he queried, smiling pleasantly. Will's only response was a nod, a mild act of defiance that earned him a cuff on the head as Angelus went to visit his masterpiece. Appropriately, Drusilla had claimed the nursery as her own, and he and Darla were hardly going to disagree with that, ensconced as they were in the plushy suites meant for the Lord and Lady of the house.

Once Darla would have chosen her room first, without question, would have even chosen if he roomed with her or was banished to another. But ever since Holtz, ever since she had left him to die, the cowardly bitch, he had claimed an upper hand in their relationship. The days when he was her boy were over. They were equals now, and he was every day amassing more power. She had begun to look at him in fear, and he relished the thought of having her in the position she had once had him as a newly turned fledge: utterly at his mercy. With his face malevolent at the happy thought, he opened Dru's door and greeted his creation with enough menace that any sane person would have recoiled.

"Hello Drusilla."

Her wide eyes opened further as she looked up at him from the floor, her dolls scattered around her. She greeted him with a joyful smile, his predatory looks no object to her maddened happiness.

"Daddy," she said, "look."

He took in the dead child that appeared to be sleeping alongside her collection of dolls. She was a pretty thing, with dark curly hair. He wondered if she reminded Drusilla of her sisters.

"Come here," he commanded roughly, growing excited by the sweet memory. She made to rise but he interrupted her.

"Not like that," he spoke, his voice low and rough. She looked at him with limpid eyes and slowly crawled to his side. As he grabbed her head and jerked her hair back, he smiled coldly at her, meeting excited eyes. Drusilla was a sadist's dream, and the best part was that both William and Darla would be jealous, and William particularly hurt.

As Drusilla's mouth encircled him, he tilted his head back and smiled. Oh, but it was good to be back.

The next few months were a blur of pleasure for Angelus. He took advantage of all that London had to offer, and threw himself into the delights of all manners of societies. With his status in the vampire world currently unchallenged in the city, and the money that he and Darla ensured they would never be without, there was nothing his dead heart desired that he couldn't have.

There were exotic parties and beautiful high society girls that were taken with the mysterious, but obviously wealthy newcomer at their supposedly exclusive soirees. Darla in particular viewed guards as a challenge, and Angelus, though _he_ had nothing to prove with regards to social class, unlike the former prostitute, always found the forbidden most enticing. He and Will spent a number of nights making havoc in Whitechapel or lost in the daze of second-hand opium from the blood of addicts. Though he was careful that he should neither appear too eager or too disinterested, he spent many a night with Darla enjoying her unmatched skills. They attended the theatre, the opera, seedy boxing matches, cock fights, brothels, and circuses.

Still, after five months in London, Angelus was feeling restless. Night had fallen and he was standing at his window, wondering what he would do that evening when he heard a laugh. Light and airy, the sound gave him pause and he turned to see who produced the sound. To his delight, it was a pretty girl. London was full of them, but Angelus considered himself something of a connoisseur and under his critical gaze the girl appeared more than adequate.

Her hair was in a neat style, adorned with curls and a lavender bow, which matched her day dress. It was simply cut, but the quality of the material was clear even from a distance. He wondered if her waist was naturally that small without the confines of a corset. Though she was facing away from him, he glimpsed her profile as she entered the house across from his, and appreciated the high, delicate, cheekbones and the small, pretty nose. Her mouth looked exquisite. He watched her as she was greeted by their neighbor, Sir Rupert Giles, who was rumored to have connections with both the Watcher's Council and some of the more discreet purveyors of magic supplies, an unusual combination by anyone's standards. The home had some powerful wards protecting it, unlike the rest of the block, and he had decided early on that they were not going to tangle with the man if he gave them no cause to, at least until they were ready to leave.

Still, it didn't mean he couldn't watch the house, and its newest, loveliest visitor.

Buffy's guardian Rupert was a hard man to know. One minute he was seemingly stuffy and flustered, the next, knowledgeable and intimidating.

She had been pleasantly scandalized to find that the rumors about her mother's mysterious friend were true. His housekeeper, a woman with gypsy blood who went by Jenny, turned out to be his lover. His library, though filled with some of the dullest books on topics that hardly merited much thought, let alone such lengthy tomes in _her_ humble opinion, also contained scandalous novels she would never have been able to read in front of her parents. To Buffy's delight, there were also a number of books ostensibly about magicks of all things. Buffy had taken to paging eagerly through them when she thought she would be undisturbed.

Rupert Giles also had an extensive collection of medieval weaponry that she enjoyed looking at and had very liberal attitudes on women's rights, or at least a hearty disinterest in her day to day activities; she wasn't sure which. All in all, this made Giles, as she had taken to calling him with some affection, the ideal guardian for her.

Elizabeth, or Buffy, as she had been called from a small age, had been recently orphaned after her parents were mysteriously killed by what appeared to be wild animals. They had been in London for diplomacy reasons, as well as for wedding of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce to Miss Winifred Burkle, and the shock at their deaths had rippled through society. Buffy has only been spared because she had faked an illness in order to avoid the absolute tediousness that her mother's friend, Lady Pamela, always heralded. It was stupid, but she had never been sick a day in her life, deceptively hearty despite her slight frame, and she could admit it was both heartbreaking and endearing to see her mother worried for her health. The last thing she had said to her parents was that she hoped they had a good time. There were worse final words of course, and she was glad they hadn't been fighting before her parents had died, yet she felt incredibly guilt that their last interaction was based on deception.

The death of such prominent persons, particularly prominent visitors, had driven the metropolitan police into a tizzy, with parties dispatched to hunt down the wolves the police supposed had been the cause of her parents' deaths. Many young men of Buffy's acquaintance had formed their own search parties. Giles, for his part, had darkly pronounced the efforts futile, which they eventually proved to be. At the time, she had been startled to be staying with the old friend of her mother's, particularly since she had never mentioned him, but from what she could gather the two had been involved at one point, and she supposed it was natural that he would want to see Joyce's daughter looked after. Strangely, she was not bothered by the thought of her mother's potential infidelity. Her father had betrayed her mother on a number of occasions, and Buffy thought that turnabout was fair play in such a situation.

She was fortunate that her parents' solicitor was prompt in sending a clerk to carry out their will, and even more fortunate that in the meantime, she had a variety of friends of her own, and acquaintanced of her late parents who were quick to see she was taken care of. She had met Willow Rosenburg only recently, but the shy, bookish girl had quickly earned Buffy's affection and loyalty, though she was not the sort of girl Buffy had previously been close with. The truth was, most of her friends from home, though more charming and socially adept than Willow, were not true friends. She had only received a few letters of empty condolences from the girls she had sworn with blood to be like sisters forever (pricked fingers and a silver needle swam in her mind, and the darkened walls of their dormitory walls). Her finishing school had been fun, but she had to admit that she had accomplished and contributed little.

The death of her parents had changed Buffy. Previously, she had been content with her life. She was young, and beautiful, and wealthy. Her parents were neglectful but indulgent, she had plenty of friends, and everything to look forward to. Now though, as the burden of grief was beginning to lessen, she felt that she ought to be doing something. What, she wasn't yet sure. For now, she was content to explore the boundaries of this strange new life she was leading. Yet she felt instinctively that she would no longer be content to marry some bland handsome stranger and become a perfect society wife.

Willow was, despite her shyness, an excellent companion to have, in light of Buffy's newfound curiosity. Her friend was incredibly intelligent, and was trying to convince her conservative parents to send her to university. Buffy only knew one girl who had gone, a quiet girl from school with radical parents, but she thought Willow should get her way, if only because she felt that the pompous gentlemen who attempted to lord their superior education over their female companions deserved to be shown up by her brilliant friend. The Rosenburgs were in a tricky position though, given that they were Jewish. It was undoubtedly easier to be so in England than in certain parts of the continent, but she found London society far less tolerant than the New England and California circles she had moved in, however briefly, before she had found herself in Britain. The lack of titles made society far more accepting to the new rich, whose parents might have been servants and miners. In England, the newly wealthy were grudgingly admitted to certain circles, but despite the fact that some of the Dukes were practically penniless, no one ever let those who could not trace their ancestry back to William the Conqueror forget their supposed social inferiority. Buffy found the whole thing rather tiresome, but she sympathized with her friend's worries about her marriage prospects, despite her almost obscene wealth.

The two girls became fast friends, often accompanied by Willow's friend Alexander LaVelle Harris, the young heir to a title of little import, whose parents' unsuitability often drove him to abandon them at the family's country estate for the entire season. The two had grown up together, and before Xander, as he preferred to be called, had lost his father, a military officer, in the war in Afghanistan, the later Mr. Harris had been good friends with Mr. Rosenburg. Unfortunately, his mother had made an unhappy remarriage and both she and his stepfather spent most of their time in various states of intoxication, from what Buffy had heard. Still, Mr. Rosenburg, busy though he was, still welcomed the young man into his household, and Willow and Xander lived much like siblings in the house. Of course, that wasn't exactly how Willow saw it…

Brushing those thoughts away, Buffy turned her face to the windows of the library. Most townhouses did not possess such splendid collections, but Giles would never be parted from his beloved books, and spent very little time at his estate in the north from what he had told her. She glanced at the clock. Evening was approaching and though he was conducting some business in the city, Giles had promised to return in time to take supper with her. She glanced down at the book she was reading, and snorted softly. A year ago, she would have never been caught with a book in hand of her own volition. Still, she had to entertain herself somehow, and as she was in mourning, her options outside of her residence were limited.

Glancing down at the tome on demons of all things, she looked around guiltily. Giles hadn't said anything about not reading certain books or anything, and she had no reason to feel like she shouldn't be exploring the strange parts of his library, but lately she had felt like she was being watched, and had become even more secretive about her reading habits. Though the library wasn't the only place she felt like someone's gaze was on her. In fact, thinking about it, she realized she often felt that way at night.

"You've been following her," Darla accused him, stepping into his room as he gazed out his window into the room across the street.

"Who?" Angelus asked, as innocent as he had ever sounded. The girl had remembered to close her curtains as her maid helped her dress for the evening, which fortunately, was not a common occurrence. He was enjoying the little glimpses their proximity afforded him.

"The girl," Darla responded. Angelus rolled his eyes. She sounded petulant, and in a woman her age, he thought with a cruel smile, that just wasn't attractive.

"You'll have to be more specific darling," he responded, still not turning to look at her, "there are a lot of girls in this town and I have followed any number of them." It was true. There was only one, however, that was attending a party in two nights time at the house of Roderick Chase, his wife Mary, and their lovely daughter Cordelia. Only one who he had stalked for more than a few days.

Darla's jealousy always irritated him. They were hardly faithful to the other- vampires rarely were. They both took other lovers as they wished, or victims as the case often was. And Angelus often stalked his chosen victims for weeks, even longer if the fancy stuck him. But Darla had been a little fearful of him for the past few decades. Not just of his power, which had so recently eclipsed hers, but that he might tire of her and move on. She had created him, molded, him, and he had been her chosen companion and obsession for the better part of a century and a half. But she could no longer even pretend to control him, hence, her worry about his new obsession. It had only been a month, he thought, with a roll of his eyes.

One month and he already knew quite a bit about Buffy Summers. Not the name _he_ would have chosen for this beauty but he had to confess there was a certain charm to it. Altogether, she _was_ a charming creature. Gracious, kind, and witty from what he had seen. He wondered what she would be like tied to his bed, if she would lose all that upper-class composure. He felt himself growing hard at the thought.

Darla touched his shoulder to try to turn him to face her, but he was in no mood for one of her fits, and turned the opposite way instead, catching her arms and twisting them behind her.

"Jealous?" he mocked, shoving her face-down onto the bed. As he held her arms with one hand he pushed up her skirts with another, taking a moment to eye her dress with distaste. The current women's styles allowed for a great deal of frippery that he found rather tasteless. Compared to Buffy's elegantly cut day gowns, Darla's dress appeared a bit insipid. Inwardly he shrugged. He was past the point of caring if Darla looked her very best.

"She's a pretty thing," he murmured in her ear, "young, innocent, _pure_." Like you never were, the unspoken barb went.

"I didn't think you would want another Drusilla," Darla responded, sounding bored. Angelus froze above her, tilted his head back and laughed. Oh, but she was utterly transparent. He often wondered what it was like to be so revered and feared, as Darla was, or like her sire was, all the while being unable to disguise one's true emotions. Pathetic.

He ground his erection into the cradle of her hips.

"I don't" he replied, amused. "I hadn't even thought of turning her," he continued, which was true. Angelus rarely sired other vampires who were to be anything but minions. They invariably turned out to be disappointments.

"Still," he said harshly, grinding against Darla, "she's a pretty thing. Maybe even pretty enough to keep me entertained for …or a century or so." He let that sink in as he undid his trousers.

He imagined it as he screwed her into the mattress, growing excited at the thought. Buffy appeared to be a spirited girl from what he could see, even though she was grieving. At the very least, she would be fun to bring to heel. Fledglings had to be shown who was dominant, broken in like horses. William had been particularly fun in that respect, but Angelus preferred women and he imagined a newly turned Buffy could prove even more delightful. With those happy images in his mind, he finished with a roar and sent Darla tumbling over the edge too.

After unceremoniously kicking her out of his room, he began to redress. All of this watching was delightful, it was true, but he thought it high time he meet the girl that had drawn his attention. There was only so much one could learn from a distance, after all.

And he wanted to see up close if her eyes were hazel or green, the delicate flush of her cheeks, the color of the veins beneath the skin on her breasts and wrists, and what the light in her eyes would look like as it dimmed. With a smile on his face, he turned once more to face her window. She was still hidden behind her curtains, safe from his gaze. _Soon_ , he thought.

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 ** _Feedback would be greatly appreciated, especially at this early stage._**


	2. Chapter 2

Another update. I've been lax about working on the story this week, but I've got the next update edited and ready and I should have that up within a week's time. I really appreciated the feedback I received last time. It means a lot, especially since this is the first longer piece I have published in quite a while.

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The London season was nearly over, and the sticky hot days began to be accompanied by swiftly cooling nights, much to Buffy's delight. In mourning as she was, she only attended a scant few events, but her sometime-friend Cordelia Chase had coaxed her into joining her at a more informal party held at the townhouse Cordelia's family was renting for the summer. Born to a British father and an American mother, she had grown up attending the same American finishing school as Buffy, but her father wanted her to find a British husband. For her part, Cordelia was less interested in her future spouse's nationality than his looks, wealth, and malleability, an attitude Buffy found somewhat crass, but nonetheless amusing.

Actually, that was a fair description of Cordelia herself. The Lord knew she had her moments, but though Cordelia could be selfish, cruel, and petty, Buffy found that the other girl was also capable of bravery, loyalty, and was more cunning than most would guess. She could also be commended for her good taste, Buffy noted, glancing around the well-lit room. The small, informal party was full of some of the movers and shakers in high society, among them a few troublemakers, yet Cordelia, who was the official hostess for the evening, did a remarkable job ensuring the evening would not become something that would feed the society gossips or tar her good name.

"Buffy," the beauty in question drawled, getting her attention, "could you try not to spend the whole party staring at the walls?"

Buffy gave her a sticky sweet smile in response.

"I was just admiring the wallpaper, Cordy darling," she responded, "it's so charming and quaint. It reminds me of my grandmother's parlor."

Her backhanded compliment earned her a scowl, and Buffy stood and flounced away to talk to someone else. No sense in sticking around long enough to await a response from her friend's sharp tongue.

As she moved gracefully in no direction in particular, a handsome man suddenly stepped into her path, looking at her curiously.

Actually, that description did him a gross disservice. This man was _beautiful_. Not classically handsome, no, his features were too brutally masculine for that, but the strong brow and nose, those slashing cheekbones, that cruel, sculpted mouth smiling slightly presented a picture that was all too appealing. And he was examining her just as intently. As their eyes met and she felt her stomach tingle, he frowned slightly and took the few steps that remained to place him directly in front of her, bowing slightly as she hastily presented her hand.

His mouth didn't linger over it but he did seem reluctant to let her hand go as he looked at her with something more intense than curiosity.

"I apologize for my rudeness," he murmured in a low attractive voice, his accent a curious blend with elements she couldn't totally identify. "I don't believe we have met before, and yet I feel I have seen you somewhere," he continued, giving her a smile that, though apologetic, did nothing to assure her that she was not somehow in danger, teetering on a precipice.

"My name is Liam Angelus," he continued. She smiled at him shyly in response.

"Elizabeth Summers. Is me. I mean," she paused and blushed. What in the name of the Lord was wrong with her?

As one of Cordelia's more vapid admirers stumbled her way drunkenly, Liam Angelus guided her decisively to the side with a gentle hand on her elbow. Buffy smiled at him gratefully studying him from underneath her lashes. A party such as this was hard to gain admittance to without an impressive title, a fortune, or both. For her part, she had the dubious favor of the hostess, a not inconsiderable inheritance, and a very powerful guardian. She had never heard of this man, and unless he was one of the few nobles who didn't introduce themselves with a title, she doubted he had any rank of importance. The wealthiest men in the city were well-known, even to her, after a brief amount of time in London. She wondered if he was friendly with Cordelia. The thought was not appealing.

"I usually go by Buffy," she said, her tone more moderated. Though her heart was still beating faster than it had any right to, her breathing was under control and she appeared to be capable of talking without embarrassing herself, so that was something.

"Buffy," he said, rolling her name off his tongue, dark, fathomless eyes meeting hers again. "It suits you."

It hadn't been too difficult to discover Buffy's schedule for the evening, though the sheer amount of time involved had been a bit embarrassing for Angelus. Luckily, no one had noticed or commented on it and he didn't need to waste any time eviscerating someone. Securing an invitation to what was supposed to be a small and intimate event proved more difficult, but as ever, his way with women ensured he got what he wanted. One of the hostess' friends was easy to persuade into promising an invitation to the very handsome, very generous stranger who seemed so enamored with her and begged to see her the next night. He had been greeted with some suspicion, but no small amount of appreciation by Cordelia Chase, and William had taken her helpful friend Harmony for a little walk she was hopefully going to return from having utterly forgotten about him in favor of his progeny. If not, she wouldn't return at all.

He had decided, in the end, to take William with him, which he was hoping he wasn't going to regret. Still, since the younger vampire had better pray Angelus didn't repent taking him along, he was optimistic about the night. Nothing like the threat of pain and humiliation, even unspoken, to prompt good behavior. As soon as the insipid Miss Kendall had been whisked away to the gardens, Angelus was able to focus his attentions fully on his chosen prey.

Miss Summers was talking with Cordelia Chase, trading veiled insults, and he took advantage of her distraction to drink her in greedily. Surpassingly lovely, this girl, with her hair in loose golden curls that he was sure would be soft to the touch. Her lashes were long and the shadow they cast on her cheek was exquisite. She was wearing soft lavender again and he longed to see her in some other color, once she was out of mourning. He reminded himself with some amusement that she might not live that long.

As she turned away from her…friend, his eyes locked onto her, taking in the pulse in her neck, her tongue as she moistened her lips, her own eyes, as they scanned the room. He stepped forward swiftly, suddenly impatient, eager to intercept her. No doubt, her gaze would have reached him eventually, but that wasn't soon enough for him. He stepped in her path and took her in as she reacted to him for the first time.

There was surprise in those exquisite eyes, like polished pieces of jade (and wasn't that a pretty picture to ponder, the girl wearing nothing but precious beads looped around that dainty neck that would match eyes closed in agony or ecstasy) and he watched her hungrily as she took him in. He was pleased to see her gaze linger on his shoulders with a certain amount of feminine appreciation, before moving to meet his eyes. Now that he knew he had her, in a sense, he needed to reassure the girl he wasn't a threat.

Angelus sometimes amused himself by being completely honest with his victims, claiming he didn't need to lie to them. In truth, pretending to be little more than a handsome gentleman was a lie. Pretending to be at all gentle, or kind, or good, was a lie. The truth of his nature was so terrible even other demons gave him a wide berth when he was in a temper, and his reputation was earned by a career so bloody and disturbing, that his legend had taken hold over the continent. Angelus was perversely aware of his dishonesty as he moved to make Buffy Summers at ease. He worked to pitch his voice low and smooth, to make his face a mask of polite interest.

"I apologize for my rudeness. I don't believe we have met before, and yet I feel I have seen you somewhere," he said, speaking quietly and smiling at her, watching her eyes carefully. "My name is Liam Angelus." It was too risky to introduce himself merely as Angelus in this case. It was not a name used by any other being he had met, and his goal for the moment was to seduce her, not to interest her with some yarn about his name.

He watched her blush, enraptured.

"Elizabeth Summers. Is me. I mean," she paused and he listened to the sound of her heartbeat.

Angelus was pleased to see her so beguiled in turn. It was only fair after all. With his keen sight, movement on the periphery of his vision meant that he had plenty of time to reach out with deliberate slowness and move his latest obsession out of the way of an intoxicated fop.

"I usually go by Buffy," she continued, slightly more composed.

"Buffy," he repeated, inwardly laughing at how her eyes dilated slightly, "It suits you." In truth, he thought the name a bit silly, unworthy of such an exquisite creature, but he couldn't deny there was something sort of sweet about the name, sweet like absinthe rolled under the tongue with a sugar cube, or the taste of an innocent's blood.

"I prefer Angelus myself," he confessed to her, forcing his eyes not to stray to her neck for too long. Or her neckline, which though hardly the lowest in the room, still hinted at what were undoubtedly lovely young breasts. He contained his amusement as she traced over his face again.

"Well I must say that the name suits you as well," Buffy replied quietly, lowering her eyes, "after a fashion."

Oh, but she had wit this one. For her beauty alone Angelus would have desired her, but there was something appealing about knowing she was a little too bold for society's standards. Then again, society liked women to be utterly passive, and men to be _almost_ utterly passive, but he was willing to be generous in his estimation of the girl's character. It was more diverting to assume the comments she had offered Miss Chase were true to her nature.

While he longed to suggest a dance, or a stroll in the gardens, he knew she was not the sort of girl who would accept. The society virgins were careful to avoid even the appearance of impropriety and the fact that she did appear to be attracted to him just made it all the more likely she would take care not to get too close to him. Yet.

"Have you been in London long, Miss Summers?" he asked. "Excuse me, Buffy."

She treated him with a pert tap of her fan against his chest, eyes silently reprimanding him for his little slip, perhaps deducing its calculated nature.

"Not long enough," she replied, "and in other ways, perhaps too long."

Amused, he thought wryly that he was supposed to be the mysterious one. Not this slip of a girl just turned eighteen.

He allowed himself to laugh quietly. "Well, I've done a fair bit of traveling myself, and I sometimes feel that way. Dare I ask if we share the same cause for our similar attitudes towards our gracious hostess, London?"

She gave him a sad smile in response, and he cursed himself a fool for not knowing the cause.

"You seem the sort to dare whatever he likes," she replied, "but I shall simply say we do not have the same reasons and move on to a happier topic, or at least one that allows me to burden you with questions rather than necessitate quick thinking on my part."

"Ask away my lady," he replied, tucking away her comments for later analysis.

"Where have you traveled?" she asked, "That seems both polite and innocuous, but gives me plenty of chances to pry, doesn't it?"

"I suppose it does," he said, grinning at her, "but it also gives me a number of opportunities to boast, which I suspect will not be well received. You seem the sort who would pass a quick and damning judgment on any poor man who, momentarily forgetting himself in the light of your beauty, proceeded to exaggerate his exploits even slightly."

"I suspect I am," she replied swiftly. But he could tell she liked being called pretty.

"I count myself fortunate that I won't need to exaggerate then," he continued.

"To impress me?" she queried, eyes bright.

"That too," he assured her.

This was good. He could feel her warming to him. Not a moth to his flame, nor even ensnared, no, she was drawing him in, even as he was drawing her. Perhaps the seduction on her part was unconscious, but it was there none the less. She might be in mourning but despite some quietness he sensed was perhaps uncharacteristic, she seemed vivacious and a little flirtatious. She had a confidence that allowed her to make comments that a different girl would never have thought of, or been able to deliver.

Something in him longed to steal her away with him then and there, but there would be greater pleasure to be gained by waiting, and so he would. As he refocused his efforts on enchanting his latest obsession, he took a moment to luxuriate in present. Circumstances and company being what they were, only a good feed and a fuck later tonight would make things better, and he had plans to procure them both. _Oh yes_ , he thought, letting his eyes trace over Buffy's figure, _things were shaping up very nicely indeed._

Buffy opened her eyes to a room aglow with the sunrise, soft light diffusing through her curtains. She smiled sleepily and stretched her arms. Last night had been, well, it had been something. While she cursed herself for looking a fool in front of the most attractive man she had ever met, she couldn't help but wonder if there was more to him than met the eye. Her mouth traced his name.

Angelus.

What a man. Since her parents' death she hadn't really been interested in anyone, her petty flirtations becoming meaningless in comparison with the loss she felt. They hadn't been very loving, Hank and Joyce, but they were her parents all the same.

Yes, she had put thoughts of pretty boys aside, but Liam Angelus was no boy. Angelus suited him, she thought, he looked positively angelic to her eyes. Although there _was_ something sort of…wicked about him. Something about him made her feel he was laughing at her. She decided, then and there, that she didn't like him. It would be far too risky to like him. She shivered a little and turned to glance at her clock, wincing when she saw the time. She was shocked her maid hadn't roused her yet. She was supposed to be meeting Willow for a luncheon, and considering the time she might be better off skipping breakfast altogether. She was hungry, but it would just be herself and Willow, and possibly Alexander, and she didn't worry about appearing to have to heavy an appetite in front of them. They were neither of them the sort to judge a girl by what she ate.

Thinking about it, Buffy hoped that it would just be Willow she would see for the meal. She wanted to talk to someone about Angelus, and unfortunately Willow's friend had already made his interest in her clear, albeit clumsily. She wanted to swoon over the handsome stranger and complain about his high handedness and mysterious nature without arousing someone's jealousy.

As she called for the maid and began looking at dresses to wear, her mind turned to what she and Willow were planning on doing after they ate. Willow's parents were usually very busy, her father occupied with running a large private bank and her mother with her tireless efforts to improve education for the working classes in the City. Her home was massive, and more easily afforded the girls privacy than Giles' home, where Buffy herself was a guest.

And considering their purpose, that privacy was ideal.

A week ago Buffy had shown her friend the books she had discovered in her guardian's library and like Buffy, Willow had been skeptical and intrigued by turns. After some deliberation the girls had agreed to try a spell, to see if they could harness the magicks the books described. Some of the spells warned of dire consequences for failure, but others were described as simple things that Buffy had pointed out seemed hardly worth performing with magick. Willow, for her part, had supposed that they were like stepping stones to higher powers, like the stories they had read as small children, or the simple sums they had practiced.

Buffy, for her part, was horrified that something so thrilling as magick could be likened to the dullness of academia, but seeing the fond expression on Willow's face, she wisely kept her mouth shut. There was no other friend she would trust with a secret such as this.

As her carriage approached Willow's home, Buffy's eyes barely took in the exquisite front garden arrangement, unusual in a home so close to the city as to be barely outside it. Her heart was beating in her throat and for the second time in as many days, she _longed_ for something, with a foreign, fierce desire. As the footman helped her out of the carriage she scarcely noticed the few drops of rain that had begun to fall.

As the Rosenburg butler, West, lead her to the room in the wing of the home considered Willow's, Buffy thought, inexplicably, of a pair of dark eyes. She pushed the thought out of her mind and focused on what she and Willow hoped to accomplish. As her eyes met her friend's soft brown ones, she was thrilled to see the same eager desire mirrored there. They went through the motions of being served impatiently, longing for the maid to leave. As she left the room, Buffy spoke consciously for the first time since she had entered her carriage.

"Should we wait?" she asked, "or….."

Willow glanced out the window, where it was raining softly.

"Let's eat," she said, "but quickly. You have the books?"

Buffy nodded. "I do," she said, nodding to the hatbox she had brought, ostensibly to show her friend some new fashion. It was the surest way to avoid questions from Giles.

"I met someone last night" Buffy said blushing slightly and inwardly apologizing to Willow for mentioning the fete she was not invited to. Cordelia didn't like Willow.

"At Cordelia's?" Willow asked, her normally sweet face making a moue of distaste. Buffy mentally reevaluated her plans to coerce the two girls into being friends and decided to put them aside for the time being.

"Yes," she replied. "We just sort of bumped into each other, and we only spoke briefly, but Willow, he's the most beautiful man I have ever seen. He's sort of tall, and dark, and mysterious, and well, I really didn't like him – I mean, he was really arrogant, although I think he was trying to hide it, but there was something about him…" She trailed off.

"But he's good looking?" her friend asked, a hint of mischief on her face mixing with her usual cheerful excitement.

Buffy shook her head softly, her curls bouncing as she moved.

"Oh he shone everyone else down, but it's not just that," she insisted. "There's something about him…something that's just…I don't know, different!" She paused a moment. "He said he looked forward to seeing me again. I think, well, I think it was more than a social nicety. I think I will see him again. In fact," here she quieted again, "I'm quite sure that I will."

"Well," said Willow, evidently not entirely convinced, "it may be that I will be there to see for myself."

"Yes," said Buffy, "he wasn't one of Cordelia's crowd, that's for sure. He definitely acted like he had power, and dressed like he had money, but he's not one of those boys and men that usually occupy her parties, if you know what I mean."

"Yes," said the redhead. "I rather think I do."

Buffy sighed internally. It was a shame there was bad blood between Willow and Cordelia. They were very different sorts of girls, and it was probably too much to ask that they be friends, but she wished they had not already feuded before she arrived. Cordelia had been snubbing Willow, dismissing her not for her religion, as was so common, but for her style, and her shy manners. Willow, for her part, was not the sort to forgive a slight, and in any case, Cordelia was not the sort to apologize.

So Buffy went to Cordelia's fashionable parties, and lunched and went to parks and events with Willow. As she finished her tea, she still couldn't help but wish things could be different. Hate, it seemed, could grow in even the softest of hearts.

Idly, she wondered if the opposite could be true of love, and then carefully pushed the thought away to the back of her mind with all the other things she planned on dealing with the week after never.

Willow quickly drank her tea in a way that could most kindly be described as 'less than ladylike'.

"If only Alexander could see you now," Buffy said, with a wink. Her friend blushed, good mood restored and all was right between them again. Buffy glanced down at the inconspicuous hatbox and raised an eyebrow. Willow nodded eagerly, and rang the bell that would summon the maid back to their room. The girls made polite, meaningless conversation while the maid cleared away the dishes and Willow instructed her to leave them be for a few hours, as they were going to retire to the small parlor and answer letters together. When the maid left the room the girls waited a breath before Buffy jumped out of her chair, and whipped the top off the hatbox, withdrawing the spellbook with reverent hands. She rushed to the parlor ignoring good manners, but as Willow followed, she reasoned that her friend hardly cared, and that some rules were made to be broken occasionally.

Buffy chose a cushy loveseat, and brushed her skirts out of the way, making room for her friend. Both were quickly seated, and Buffy proceeded to open the book and page through it quickly.

Buffy turned to the page she was seeking and pointed.

"Here," she said, "This one."

"Levitation," Willow whispered reverently.

"It will be clear if we are successful, and we can easily explain anything away, and it seems safe," Buffy whispered in return. The girls were leaning in, as though someone was there to witness their most exciting secret.

"Should I try first?" Buffy whispered. Willow nodded eagerly. Buffy scanned over the instructions, if the two sentences could even be called that, and took a deep breath.

 _Clear your minde_ , the book said. _Clear your minde, and drawing upon the forces withen you, focus most intently on a small object, and with your minde and your magick, lift the object._

The second sentence discouragingly proclaimed, _You will almost certainly fail._ It's simple structure and accurate spelling were an insult to the more encouraging phrase that preceded it.

Buffy let her deep breath out and took another one, focusing on the little ball of tissue paper that had been nominated as the object in question, and imagined it rising.

Nothing.

She tried again, focusing on it, willing it to rise. She wasn't sure what the 'forces withen you' were, or how to access them, so she was hoping a lot of willpower would be sufficient. It was not.

After staring at the little brown scrap for what surely was longer than five minutes she gave up.

"You try," she told Willow, unwilling to admit defeat. Willow nodded and focused on the ball. Nothing happened for several minutes, and then, incredibly, the ball gave a little wobble, rose slowly off the table, and then dropped the inch as Willow jumped up in wonder.

"Wow," she said. Buffy's jaw had dropped in a manner that was probably most unattractive, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

"You did it!" she exclaimed, thrilled, and a little jealous. "How did you do it?"

"I, I don't know!" Willow exclaimed. "I just focused, and I felt a sort of center in me, and then I tried to make the tissue rise, and Buffy, it was so difficult! It felt heavy! And then I just sort of pushed, and it worked!"

"Amazing," Buffy whispered. "Let me try again." Willow nodded eyes intent on her friend. Buffy closed her eyes, lips pressed tight together. She tried looking around inside herself but the whole thing seemed kind of silly and pointless; how could one look inside? It was all a metaphor, surely. Similar to when people told others to look inside themselves for compassion, or charity when they were asking for money.

 _What was inside her?_ she wondered. _Grief. Dark grey grief like shroud around her. Hope, for her friends and her future, stubborn green shoots. Strength that she had never before needed, golden and towering, like pillars reflecting light. Anger. Anger at the world, at its harshness, at those who condescended to her and offered empty words of condolences. Anger that she suppressed because it was wrong to feel like this, it was pointless, because the world simply couldn't be changed, it was as it had always been, broken, corrupt, and cruel…Anger that roared like a lioness and cracked like a summer storm._ Buffy opened her eyes.

The tissue was on fire.

 _The clock was being wound up. Scratch, went the mice. The cat purred. There were four. Then three. Two._

 _The mouse ran up the clock. It was the only survivor. The clock struck one. Mouse ran down. Hickory dickory. Dock._

 _The moon was talking to her tonight. It was lovely and full, but it would wane. Everything withered. The flowers in the boxes were dying, and she couldn't abide the sight of them. Tick tock._

 _The man in black was sharpening his scythe. Three would die before the winter came. And when the winter came, it would bring the snow and the darkness._

 _The sun was too bright, even with thick, dark curtains clocking the light. Her boy was quiet, curled up tight. Her daddy was pacing in the room to the right. And Darla, darling Darla was dying, but she didn't know it yet. Dru wasn't going to tell her. She was being a bad girl, and would have to take her medicine later, for the light that was coming was going to kill her. It could kill them all, or just give them a fright._

 _The stars whispered to her. They warned her. Drusilla listened._


	3. Chapter 3

Bonjour mes amis! I am up in Quebec for the week, so the next installment may be a little late in coming out, but it is almost done and the wait shouldn't be too long. I hope your summers are shaping up to be all full of adventure as mine is! (Or, for the no-longer-enjoying generous student holidays, shaping up to be relaxed enough for some good vacations!)

Wanted to express my thanks again for the reviews, many of whom wrote in again, which I know I often try and fail to do for multi-chapter fics. I really appreciate the feedback. Also wanted to warn that things remain a bit grisly, and this story has the rating I assigned it for a reason.

* * *

Angelus looked at his sleeves in disgust. Sometimes in the pursuit of his goal, he allowed his usual fastidious dress to be ruined, and now was one such unfortunate occasion. He was supposed to be attending the opera in less than an hour, but it was unlikely he would make it now. He had told Darla he would meet her close to the opera house, but stained with blood as he was, his entrance to that particular pillar of high society was likely to cause a bit more trouble than even he was capable, or interested, in dealing with.

Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to regret the cause of the mess. Angelus could not abide cheating, unless he happened to be the one indulging. Hypocrisy was the prerogative of the most powerful man at the table, and the petty sorcerer who had joined the underground gambling parlor he preferred to frequent had severely underestimated his opponents' aptitudes. Though he preferred his particular combination of mind games and precise violence to work his will, Angelus had studied magicks for a few decades, and was a fairly proficient practitioner. Anyone with enough patience and will could learn, after all, and though his patience was certainly no better than average, his strength of will was.

The man, fool enough to try using easily countered luck charms so ineffectual that mere superstitions were enough to break them, had so irritated the other players (none of who would have been so crass as to cheat so pathetically in front of those _they,_ at least, afforded some modicum of respect) that they had left the man to Angelus with no more protest than a bit of token grumbling. He had been in a bit of a hurry, and hadn't really been able to indulge his inner artist. Still, some skills required practice, and skinning a man alive was one of those. The trick was to ensure your victim didn't go into shock. He had done a decent job on the young man, but hadn't managed to keep him alive quite as long as he would have liked.

Absently, he licked his hands clean. Magicks added a nice depth to blood, even those of a man who tasted otherwise ordinary. The taste was whetting his appetite. Perhaps, he decided, he'd be so inconsiderate of Darla as to let her find her own way home with nary a message. That was a hint even she couldn't miss.

He was still hungry, and he was beginning to desire another kill. There was a brothel a few miles away, hidden in plain sight in a deceptively ordinary neighborhood that was near to both the slums on one end and elegant ton houses on the other, which catered to those with…proclivities. Some of their clientele were human, and some were not, but with enough money, there was nothing one couldn't procure. London was full of desperate souls, and some of those were pretty girls… and some were members of their families desperate enough to sacrifice them.

He'd like a blonde, Angelus decided. A young pretty thing, perhaps a virgin, though that would cost. He was still in two minds about whether he'd want to kill her or not. Sometimes, it was best to leave these things to chance. His moods were changeable.

Hailing a coach, he settled in for the brief ride, feeling his trousers begin to grow tight as he contemplated the possibilities. Perhaps he'd leave it up to the girl; base her survival on her performance. It had been a long time since he'd had a human woman who was intellectually aware of just what he was capable of. And terror did make the blood so delicious.

In the end, the woman proved to be a little disappointing, but she had still been delicious in death. The bordello had lost a beauty, but Angelus had lost a considerable amount of money, so all in all, two out of the three parties involved were satisfied. And for all he knew, the girl was happier dead than alive. Shoving any musings on the existence and nature of the afterlife out of his mind, Angelus began to whistle a cheerful drinking tune as he sauntered closer to his current residence.

Unfortunately, as he approached the house, his good humor and gluttonous satisfaction began to vanish as he saw Darla waiting for him by the window, clearly enraged. He was in no mood for a confrontation with her, but if forced, he supposed he could be bothered to shatter some of her bones or something. Tension coiled in his body like hangmen's knots.

As it happened, he needn't have bothered, for as soon as he approached the door she swept out with a vicious snarl. Clearly, he smirked, she hadn't wanted to try her strength against his. Wise on her part, clever as she rarely was these days. Lately he had begun to think she had gone bad like a bottle of wine.

Climbing the stairs, he decided to ignore William and Drusilla for the time being. If they couldn't look after themselves without his attention for a few days they really didn't deserve to exist. Drusilla did need more attention than he usually bothered with, but that was part of the reason he had allowed her to make William. It was also the reason William still lived, despite occasionally being annoying enough that Angelus would have put nearly anyone else in his place to death. As he entered his room, his good mood evaporated immediately. His sketchbook was left on the table, pages torn and slashed at; clearly, Darla wasn't was enamored with Buffy's fetching face and figure sketched out in charcoal as he was.

Angelus glowered at Darla's retreating figure. Once he had feared and worshipped her in equal measures. Fledglings were so often their sires' creatures, and despite all his brash arrogance, Darla had been strong enough in those days to bring him to heel. She had thrashed him and dominated him, but with his easy charm and innate strength, it hadn't taken more than a few decades for their relationship to become one where they were ostensibly equals. Granted, she had over a century on him, but he had quickly gained strength, and a formidable reputation. That in and of itself wasn't particularly remarkable, but Angelus had never been about brute force and carnage, though admittedly those held their charms. No, it was his cruelty, his viciousness, and his boldness that had eventually earned him that charming epithet: the Scourge of Europe.

Darla had delighted in him, in his viciousness, in his beauty, and in his skill in bed, or wherever else they cared to mate. A professional whore before she had been turned, she had taught him well, and despite her own habit of occasionally taking lovers, had seemed to resent the other women he dallied with. At least, those who he hadn't killed. And there had been a few vampires and demonesses who she had killed in fits of jealously. Angelus used to find it amusing. Now he found it irritating.

They days when he had defied the Master and tempted Darla away with him, when he had taken her on the altar of a church while an insane, human Drusilla watched in horror, when they had merrily murdered together were over. She had left him to die at the hands of Holtz, and he had not forgotten it.

Perhaps their time together was coming to an end. The only question in Angelus' mind was whether Darla would survive it. If she was willing to part ways peacefully, he'd leave her be. But he was stronger than she was now, and had always been the better fighter. He had killed two Slayers in the centuries since she had turned him, and their strength had augmented his own to the point where his power surpassed hers. It was possible she would attack him in a fit of jealousy. It was possible she would interfere with his plans…and he was only beginning to get a sense of how delightful the fruit of those half-formed plans might be.

He allowed a smirk to lighten his hard features.

Darla, for her part, was ignoring him in a fit of pique. Since that suited his plans just fine, he let it slide. Despite the fact that each day he grew more determined to be rid of her, there was something beautiful in the reversal of their situations. She was making a fool of herself over him, and he had all the power. It was lovely. Still, not as lovely as the other pretty blonde in his life.

Meeting her had gone well enough. He knew not when another opportunity to socialize and seduce her would present itself, and resolved to make an opportunity if one didn't present itself soon. He didn't want to get _too_ impatient. The longer he prolonged this, the greater the pleasure would be.

Pouring himself a glass of whisky from the decanter, he silently toasted Buffy. _To her health, may it last just long enough. And to her beauty, may it last longer,_ he thought.

"Miss Summers?"

Buffy turned to face the butler, Davies, from where she was attempting to use his absence to stare at the ceiling in the entrance at Giles' house. It was painted with an exquisite and vaguely scandalous bacchanalian scene that she had never had the opportunity to admire properly, and upon arriving home and finding the foyer empty she had glanced around guiltily, before seizing the moment.

"Hello Davies," she replied, determined to brazen her way through the interaction, acting as though just a moment before she had not been contemplating the veracity of the proportions of certain pieces of male anatomy, weighing artistic intent against gossip from married friends.

"Forgive me for not being present, miss," the blank faced man replied professionally, "But something arrived for you earlier, and I was just arranging to move it elsewhere."

Well, that certainly pricked Buffy's curiosity.

She had spent the morning with her old family friend, William Fordham. They had met for a stroll in Hyde Park and Buffy, happy to see her friend after expecting he would remain in The United States, had lingered longer than she usually did. Still, she was seeing Cordelia for tea, with Willow Rosenburg reluctantly invited along in a surprising twist, and had begged off to give herself enough time to dress for tea and tidy her appearance.

Now that she was back at Giles' house, though, she had to admit she was curious about what had arrived and why Davies had seen fit to move it.

"What was it, Davies?" she asked taking a light step forward. The butler's brow creased.

"There was a delivery of flowers for you Miss, from a Mister Angelus." Davies expression was not quite was impassive as usual, and Buffy gave a silent sigh for the interrogation she was no doubt going to receive from Giles when they had dinner in the evening.

Still, she was both shocked, thrilled, and a little put-off. She had only spoke briefly with Mr. Angelus after all, and though she was hardly modest enough to deny that his regard for her had been clear, the brevity of their contact usually dictated that he wait until they knew each other better before he make such a bold gesture. Then again, he hadn't struck her as the sort of man who was overly concerned about society's mores.

"Where are they?" she asked, deciding to reserve further judgment until she had the opportunity to see what she had been gifted with.

"They're in the parlor, Miss," Davies replied.

Giving the butler a brief nod, she made her way there, taking care not to appear too eager. As she stepped into the parlor she stopped, shocked. Buffy had imagined he might have sent her a small bouquet, perhaps in a vase. Liam Angelus had sent what appeared to be _hundreds_ of exquisite roses, in full, gaudy bloom. He was clearly fairly flush in the pockets. Their scent was almost overwhelming. Buffy covered her mouth with her hand, where it hung open unattractively.

Still, she was too shocked to care.

"Oh boy," she whispered. Attached to the largest vase, made of rich, cut crystal, was a small, creamy envelope. She slowly crossed the room to open it, reaching for the heavy cream paper and finding it sealed in a pool of red wax embossed with an A.

She pushed at the seal with trembling fingers until it gave way and slowly brought out the letter- if it could even be called that. It was a small envelope and the message inside was on a small piece of paper.

" _Dear Miss Summers,_ " it read.

" _I hope you do not find me too bold for writing to you, but I feel that my honesty will not go unappreciated regardless of your response._

 _Let me speak plainly then. It was a pleasure to meet you last Friday and I must confess that though our acquaintance is brief, I hold you in very high regard indeed. Though it would be false to say that scarcely a moment has gone by in which I have not thought of you, it would also to be false to say I have thought of you only in passing. I hope that our paths cross again, and that when they do, you will permit me a dance and the pleasure of your company. In the meantime, please enjoy this token of my appreciation._

 _Yours with much esteem,_

 _L. Angelus_ "

Buffy rapidly reread the letter, if it could even be called that. It was short and brief. It was bold and thrilling and terrifying. Taking in the roses, their rich scent, their vibrant color, she tried to collect herself. This was, well, this was _significant_. This was totally out of the ordinary. This was not a normal or conventional response, and was, in fact, the most unconventional behavior she had heard of. The strange thing was that it was not precisely, _inappropriate_ , but was unusual enough that it was making her heart beat rapidly and wonder what her friends would say.

"They arrived while you were out," Davies said unnecessarily, and Buffy jumped a little to hear his voice intrude on her thoughts.

What must he think? What would Giles think? Would he assume she had somehow led this man to believe she was seriously considering him in court? But that was absurd. They had only just met, she was in mourning, and Angelus' note was entirely within the bounds of propriety. Indeed, the note itself was only slightly remarkable in its boldness. Many young men cultivated the attitude of boldness. It was fashionable, even, and so Angelus' words did not even so much as hint at any inappropriateness.

It was the roses, really. Not only were they expensive, both for their quantity and quality, but the sheer size of the gift could not have been easy to arrange. Any man might have sent her an expensive piece of art or jewelry, but those would have been unseemly, and flowers were normally an acceptable expense and an acceptable token. They would wilt in a few days anyway.

 _What was he thinking?_ , she wondered. She supposed the letter could simply contain the whole of his interest, but surely there was more to it than that. People so rarely expressed the full truth of their feelings, and Angelus hadn't struck her as the simple sort anyway. What did he want?

It was fairly common knowledge that Buffy was going to make a debut this season in London, but her parents' death had guaranteed that was not to be the case. She was in mourning for them, and with their death, the main persons advocating for a marriage were dead. Being isolated from the rest of her family in a city that was not her home meant neither of her Aunts could take her in. Besides, her aunt Elizabeth, for whom she had been named, would never leave the grave of her daughter Celia, and Buffy could hardly go live with her. Her aunt Mary lived in a very remote area, and barely kept in touch with Hank. Her husband was a Texan rancher who had an aversion to travel, and Buffy was of an age where her desire to never set foot in Texas enabled her to escape that particular fate.

Thus, the majority of the responsibility for her marriage rested with Giles, who had quickly assured her he was in no hurry to see her wedded and added that she should certainly _not_ make a debu,t but take all the necessary time to mourn the loss of her parents. Recently, he had commented on her burgeoning interest in his library and talked about engaging tutors for her, an offer Buffy had done her best to politely decline. His views on women's rights were unusually progressive, and as this was reasonably well known, Buffy counted it as another mark against her current attractiveness to anyone seeking a bride.

As for anyone seeking anything less…honorable, Buffy felt she shouldn't be considered an easy target, and did her best to banish the thought from her mind. She was in mourning and would certainly not be considered among the debutantes on the marriage mart. True, she had a fairly substantial inheritance, but it was not as large as those belonging to a number of young women of her acquaintance. Were Angelus a fortune hunter (and wasn't that an unpleasant thought?) then surely he had better targets.

Still, it was a possibility Buffy forced herself to consider. Perhaps she had been too obviously taken with him. Next time she encountered him, she ought to take care to be colder. That would help determine his motivations. At the very least, it would bring her some peace of mind.

Feeling marginally more self-assured, she began preparations to visit Cordelia for tea. Buffy was distracted as her maid assisted her as she changed dresses (it would never do to be seen in anything remotely unfashionable when visiting Cordelia) and she was distracted as she got in the carriage. Her carriage stopped to pick up Willow, as the two had decided to arrive to attend the tea together, aware that Willow likely owed Buffy her invitation.

The first thing Buffy noticed upon entering Cordelia's parlor was that her host was not looking her usual glamorous self. Buffy was secure enough to admit the other girl was gorgeous, considered one of society's beauties, and insecure enough that she worried that her friend was better looking than she was. With Buffy in mourning, Cordelia had reveled in her status as the most desirable girl of the season…though that status was by her own estimation. There were a few English girls who were close enough to her in looks, wealth, and status, that Cordelia was not as universally appealing as her behavior implied.

So it was strange that Cordelia, whose devotion to her looks bordered on the fanatical, should be wearing a yellow dress which washed her out. It was odd that her hair was done simply, and that her face was free of cosmetics. Outside it was raining again but the air remained hot and sticky. Even in her own light dress, Buffy felt weighed down. Perhaps Cordelia was also affected by the weather.

"Buffy. Willow," she said, waving them to sit down, not bothering with the usual formalities. Her maid looked at the trio of ladies in astonishment. Only Willow looked embarrassed.

It was a strange group they made, particularly with Cordelia seemingly subdued. Willow didn't seem to know how to respond to this strangely soft version of a normally fearsome foe, and Buffy was equally baffled. Cordy was blunt and a bit rude, but seemed strangely quiet and interested in what Willow had to say.

Buffy was dying to as what was going on but felt asking in front of Willow would be unwise. As they finished tea, Willow conveniently excused herself to use the facilities, and Buffy had her opportunity. As the maid led Willow out, she leaned forward hesitantly, her hand coming to rest on the other girl's.

"Cordy," she began "what's happened? You hardly seem yourself today."

The other girl frowned briefly and glanced at the door, making sure they were alone. Then she fixed Buffy with eyes filled with a mix of unhappiness and hope.

"I think," she hesitated, "I might possibly be in love. With Alexander Harris."

Buffy's mouth formed a perfect 'o'.

Later, in the carriage ride back, Buffy was so consumed by her thoughts she hardly noticed that Willow was almost equally distracted. The girl was practically vibrating with nervous excitement. It wasn't until they reached Willow's manse that the other girl pulled something out of her skirts and Buffy realized what had happened.

The Chase's library, Willow explained to Buffy, had been temptingly located on the way back from where she had been refreshing herself. She hadn't been able to resist a brief look. And apparently Roderick Chase, Cordelia's father, had a taste for exotic books. One such book appeared to contain some powerful spells. Willow had stolen it.

Buffy trailed her fingers over the drawings sketched on the thick, smooth paper. Willow entered the room and she snatched them back, as though burned. Her cheeks were pink, but Willow didn't seem to notice, as she brandished a bottle of wine and a single glass, her gaze determined.

Buffy had to stop herself from laughing hysterically. What a picture they must have made. Staid, sensible Willow with her hair falling down, proposing to get drunk while she and her well-bred American friend giggled over pornographic drawings in her pilfered prize. It was madness.

"Well?" Willow asked, moving closer. Buffy moved over on the bed to make room for her. The curtains were drawn and the gaslight that illuminated the walls cast strange shadows over the room. She was feeling fanciful that night, no doubt, but there was something inviting and sinister in the patterns made by Willow's finely carved furniture, with their curling decorative edges. Buffy hadn't the words to describe the pictures in the book, and blushingly pushed it over. The 'oh' of surprise Willow made was enough to send her into laughter, and she gave into it, collapsing on the bed and covering her mouth with her hands.

Willow quickly flipped through the book, barely pausing even on the most shocking pages. There were more than lewd acts contained in the book. There were pictures of fantastical demons that Buffy couldn't imagine actually existed, even if magic did, and there were complicated diagrams, and horrible sounding recipes for potions. Buffy stuck her hand in the book to pause Willow's movements and their eyes met.

"Maybe we shouldn't" Willow said, suddenly guilty. But her eyes were still bright, and Buffy could tell she didn't mean it.

"This was your idea," she replied in a whisper, careful to keep any note of accusation out of her voice. She had already spoken her piece after they returned to Willow's after they had left Cordelia's home the day before; Buffy wasn't happy about Willow thieving from her friend. Willow had a ruthless streak that surprised her. But once they has discovered the contents of the book, they could hardly let it go.

Buffy was resolved to return it once they learned all that the book contained, carefully ignoring her own hypocrisy. One became good at that sort of thing in the ton.

They paged through the book eagerly, careful not to dwell too long on the dirty drawings, despite their secret interest in the contents. They had heard stories of course, passed down from older, married friends and relatives. It was heresy, true, and most had insisted that the act brought no pleasure for women. But the book made mention of shocking acts and insisted that it was not only possible, but necessary for a woman to feel ecstasy for a number of powerful creative spells to work.

Other pages though, promised power. There were spells that they supposed must be beyond them _now_ , but they read of summoning great fires and bending another's will with wide eyes and uneasy consciences.

"We wouldn't actually harm anyone, of course," Buffy insisted casually. Willow nodded vigorously in reply.

"Of course not," she said, relaxing slightly. "Of course not."

A while later, Willow posed the question they both had surely been thinking.

"Do you think it's possible," she began, "to do some of those things with another?"

Buffy held off a blush by sheer force of will. She never pretended to be worldly, exactly, but liked to insinuate that she knew more than she did. Innocence was fetching, but she hated not being taken seriously, and it wasn't as though she behaved as a harlot by any means…but sometimes she acted like she knew what a harlot actually _did_.

"I suppose," she replied, feeling uncomfortable. Logically, she knew the lower classes talked about this sort of thing all the time. And there were plenty of girls her age married and with children among them, and plenty who weren't married, but forced to work as Haymarket ware.

Buffy had never been particularly attracted to anyone to a degree where she had ever pondered the possibility of becoming…intimate with them. She had favored one or two suitors with more flirtatious attitudes of course, and had twice kissed Owan Thurman, a handsome boy who had been among her coterie of friends and acquaintances in New York. She was no stranger to desire, and knew the mechanics of how children were produced, but had never considered anything like this.

Willow had likely been raised the same way, a stranger to any substantial knowledge about intimate relations between the sexes. To have such awareness thrust upon them so suddenly… Buffy fancied such acts were both more terrifying than before but also, well, also more appealing.

A knowing face swam up into her consciousness and instead of banishing, she dwelled on the fantasy momentarily and wondered what it might be like to kiss him….and what it might be like to lie down with him.

She felt her face growing flushed and resolved to focus on their ostensible purpose.

"Should we choose a spell," she asked. Did her voice sound throatier than usual?

"Yes," Willow replied, flipping quickly to a page near the beginning of the text. There lay a small paragraph that detailed instructions for a small curse. Buffy looked at her in surprise.

"It's only sleep," Willow hastened to assure her. "And it's easily broken."

Buffy examined the passage for herself. The spell required lavender, which could be easily and innocently acquired, sand, which was much the same, and an eyelash from the…was it terrible that her mind could only supply the word 'victim'? The spell could be broken with the fang of a prialis asp ground and sprinkled over the sleeper. That would be much harder to obtain, to say the least.

"Where are we going to get an asp fang?" Buffy demanded.

Willow frowned, but did not object, and merely turned the page to another spell.

It was late when Buffy returned to her home the next evening. She and Willow had found and transcribed two spells that appeared promising during the night, and the girls had woken some time after noon. Rising late meant the servants were expressing their displeasure in small ways, and everything took longer than it should have. After the late luncheon, Buffy had returned home, but her carriage had thrown a wheel and by the time she had arrived back at Giles' townhouse she was exhausted again. She had nearly fallen asleep during her informal dinner with Giles, who had been all kinds of apprehensive, and she worried she hadn't done a good job allaying his suspicions.

The maid left her alone with her gas lamp on, and Buffy looked at her bed with longing. Soon.

First she wanted to try another spell. This one, she hadn't mentioned to Willow, not wanting to explain her concerns, or rouse her friend's temper. This concerned Cordelia. And Alexander. Cordy and Xander. What a nonsensical idea it seemed, and yet she was meeting with her haughty friend tomorrow afternoon to discuss her…love? And she wanted to be prepared.

Glancing guiltily around, she removed the spellbook from under her bed, and found the page she needed. Drawing a piece of chalk out of her reticule, she began carefully copying the symbols she would need onto the floor. Once the design was finished the sat down in the center, legs askew, book balanced on her lap, and she began to read.

As she softly intoned the Latinesque words, she felt a cool breeze stir around her. The air felt like frost, and it became hard to focus as she finished the spell. When the last word was spoken she shuddered. Something had definitely happened. Shaking her head, she stood carefully. As she tidied her room she noticed the curtains had been blown open. As she went to close them, something caught her eye.

Across the street, a figure was watching her from the balcony. She froze, and her heart beat a staccato. Had they seen her? She closed the curtains with trembling hands and focused on washing away the chalk with a damp facecloth.

She crawled into bed and tugged the covers up to her chin, trying to steady her breath. If the person had seen her, what would they do? Would they know what she was doing? Would they tell Giles? Buffy shuddered. What had seemed a great adventure no longer looked so appealing. But what could she do?

It took her a long time to fall asleep that night.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Sorry for yet another delay- I'm traveling again. (That excuse makes me life seem a lot more glamorous than it is). Thanks again to those who reviewed- I very much appreciated it. Despite the fact that my reading tastes can be decidedly dark, I still feel like I'm either being too explicit, or writing a pack of fiends in such a way that they're effectively neutered. Angelus is so tricky._**

 ** _I'll have more on the rules of magic- or magick(s) as they exist in this universe. They're not so drastically different from what we saw in the first few seasons of BTVS, but have been altered slightly to suit the story._**

 ** _This is the last of the chapters that were mostly or entirely written- I hope to have the next one written, edited, and published in a week. Thanks again for reading._**

* * *

She would look so pretty stretched out with her hands bound to the ceiling. She was such a little thing that it would be easy to ensure her feet dangled off the ground. Or perhaps just grazed them? There were all sorts of delightful things he could do to her in that position.

He could whip her back bloody and lick up her life as it streamed down her skin. He could bury his face between her thighs and hold her open as he made her feel things she'd never imagined. He could take her from behind and sink his teeth into her neck as he pumped into her body. Or he could take her from the front, and watch her eyes as he wrapped her legs around his waist, putting all the pressure on her little shoulders. Delicious.

As a man, he had flitted from one girl to another, never caring much for any of them, but he had occasionally taken a particular fancy to one wench or another. Sometimes the girl to catch Liam's eye was married, or otherwise unavailable, but that had never stopped him. They bored him eventually, of course, but the habits of the man who had once inhabited the body Angelus now claimed as his own left an imprint on the possessing demon. The nature of vampires was such that they had no memories prior to rising, and their identities were often molded one way or another by the men and women who died to make them. Angelus loathed the memories of his human life, but he could remember nothing else before he rose. He accepted what he could stomach and sought to destroy the rest.

Some things hadn't changed, for he gloried in his appearance, and relished his artistic talent. He still had some degree of affection and loyalty for the country he once called home, and he had become even more hedonistic after his death. And the women- well, his desires were darker now, but he still had his little obsessions.

Buffy was one in a long line of beautiful, doomed girls, but it had been years since anything had so fully captured his attention and imagination. Logically, he must eventually tire of her, but she might keep him entertained for a century or more.

There were so many things he wanted to do to that slim, lithe body. It would be a challenge to determine what he could manage while she was alive. At this point, he was pretty well resolved to turn the girl and see what kind of vampire she'd make. The bond between Sire and Childe meant that though she, at least when she was first turned, would be utterly his creature, he could still kill her if he decided he preferred unlife without her. Angelus was very demanding towards those he made. If they did not satisfy him, he would destroy any disappointments, and he had in the past, or else turned them lose. Sometimes it baffled Angeuls that William still lived – but no, the boy might be rash, and too prone to softness with Drusilla, but he was incredibly vicious and occasionally inventive. He might do Angelus proud yet.

Still, Buffy was feisty enough in life that he suspected she might be strong enough to survive his demands. And his obsession with her might weigh the scales in her favor. Drusilla had taken years to mold even after her turning, and sometimes he marveled at his own patience. For such a lovely girl, he might be able to devote the time again. With a cruel smile on his lips, he turned towards Buffy's window.

He'd ignored Drusilla and William for the better part of the week – nothing when it came to the lives of the undead, but tormenting them never paled. Thinking about what he wanted to do to Buffy was reminding him of the early years with Drusilla…and Will. He was hard just from thinking about it. Lucky them.

As he watched Buffy enter her room, he quickly realized she wasn't preparing for bed. Interesting. He needed to see her soon, he reflected, and see in person how she would respond after his little gift.

Buffy was looking around furtively, and he wondered if she was going to pleasure herself. He wondered if she even knew how. Girls of her class were taught next to nothing about their bodies. It was amusing, and had allowed him to horrify and seduce many a young girl who hadn't a clue what he was doing to her body.

But no, Buffy was, most unfortunately, not acting out the delicious little fantasy he had created for her. Instead, she was drawing on her floor with…chalk?

Hell, he hadn't smelt magicks on her when he had met her. Her guardian had a reputation, perhaps he was tutoring her? But no, Sir Giles would hardly have encouraged a student to summon power on her own late at night. This was Buffy's own doing.

Angelus hoped she wasn't summoning a demon. That sort of thing got messy quickly, and the only demon who would be destroying her soul was him. Even with his superior vision, he had a difficult time making out the pattern, but as she moved to sit in the middle of the circle, he felt some measure of relief. Summoning darker sprits or magicks required some sort of barrier to contain the powers summoned, and Buffy's design did not contain one. He watched as she began chanting, but apparently, her spell was insignificant enough that he didn't sense anything from across the street. Angelus relaxed as it became apparent that she was finished, without any signs of harm.

Apparently satisfied, she cleaned up after herself and it was then that she saw him. It was a testament to his carelessness, and what must have been remarkable eyesight for a human.

He doubted she could make out more than a faint silhouette, but the way she froze, and the expression on her face indicated that she suspected someone had been watching her. He stood unmoving as she closed her curtains and waited as what must have been a quarter of an hour passed. When it became apparent she would not return to her window, he turned back to his own room, sitting to ruminate by the fire.

So Buffy Summers was a witch. Or at the least, exploring magicks, quite probably without any supervision. That sort of thing no longer got women burned at the stake, but there were plenty of other ways for an inexperienced practitioner to get themselves killed without proper guidance. The trouble with London at the present was that the occult had become fashionable, and those who had no business interfering with the supernatural and magicks could quite easily purchase a spellbook of real power, or stumble across a ritual that did, in fact, summon dark powers. Why, Angelus could name three such rumored incidents in the last year alone. It was damned lucky that certain parts of the city were still standing.

There were always places of magick in major cities, particularly old cities, like London. It was a risk his kind had to be aware of when they took up the hunt, though with a small amount of caution they could rampage more or less as they pleased. Still, there were plenty of serious practitioners in the city who were aware of demons, and not all of them were friendly. The Watchers' Council's influence may have been waning, but there were number of other organizations opposed to evil in the city, as well as a number of neutral parties and darker practitioners.

Any person who lived as long as Angelus had would certainly encounter magicks at some point, and it paid to have some working knowledge of what they entailed. Darla had taught him a few little tricks, but on the whole, she had thought the practice beneath her. For some time, so had Angelus, but then there had been the disaster and near-death at the hands of that coven of witches in Prussia, and thereafter he had taken a healthy interest in identifying magick users…and learning how to counter of fire spells. Nearly getting roasted was enough to motivate him to learn a bit more about the forces all animate beings of a certain intelligence could call upon.

His knowledge had been picked up in bursts and in bloodshed. He had apprenticed himself to a sorcerer of some power nearly three decades ago, and managed to fool the man into thinking he was human for a number of months. The knowledge he had gained was well worth his patience and his teacher had been delicious. He might not have bothered but one really needed _some_ sort of tutoring to gain any real measure of control. Buffy would need the same if she wished to accomplish anything of interest.

And she knew that someone had seen her work a spell. If he revealed himself to be that someone…a sympathetic, _knowledgeable_ someone, who knew what might happen? It might give him something to hold over her, or something to bind her closer to him. Secrets so often had that effect on two people. He might even use it as an excuse to see her. He could make a passable teacher, he thought. Patience wasn't his forte, but for Buffy he might forbear for a few months. That could be long enough. If he offered himself to her as a teacher…well, she might not dare to refuse.

Smirking at the thought, Angelus set about to making plans for the next evening. This was something he could easily turn to his advantage, and he wanted to be sure he was ringing every possible drop of enjoyment out of the fortuitous turn of circumstances.

Buffy spent her day in a state of mild panic, not even daring to leave the house. She had sent a note making polite excuses to avoid her social engagements and holed up in the library, were she paced restlessly. Giles was visiting a friend in the country, and Jenny had accompanied him, so Buffy was virtually alone but all throughout the day she was plagued by visions of ominous neighbors bursting in the front door and accusing her of witchcraft. She'd managed to calm herself by the time twilight arrived, but all for naught.

Liam Angelus had called in the evening, bringing with him an unremarkable looking woman and a blank-faced man. Davies had called her down, appearing puzzled and distracted. When they had arrived in the reception room, he had suddenly left on an urgent errand, leaving Buffy to face the strange trio. She had little time, however, to ponder the uncharacteristic departure of the butler before Angelus' purpose became apparent.

It was he who had seen her dabbling with magicks.

"Imagine my surprise," he told her with a delighted smile, "when I discovered you lived across the street. My family and I…and I do believe you met William, did you not? No matter. We took the house for the season. I haven't been in London for years and I don't maintain a permanent residence here so it hardly seemed worth getting to know the neighbors until I happened to see you last night."

His smile was wide, knowing, and no less ominous for the lack of detectable menace. Buffy knew there was something dangerous about the man, especially now that she was seeing him for a second time. He had a distinct, dark aura about him, something seductive, yes, but terrible. She could have spent an hour puzzling it, but he threw her off balance again after the opening gambit of their veiled conversation.

With a polite smile, Angelus offered an invitation to the opera. He promised it would be a magical evening, and such was his charm that Buffy could almost forget that there was a threat implicit in his invitation. Still, she demurred. But he had pressed his suit so that she had understood he did not mean to be disobeyed.

"I ought to give you an hour, my dear," he had said, with a smile that showed too many teeth. "We have the time. The Blightons and I might spend a little time getting reacquainted. We'll be at the Royal Opera House, so I want to give you time to look your best. You'll outshine me and our…chaperones, I imagine."

Something of her dismay must have shown on her face because he became more serious, then.

"It will be nothing more sinister than a bit of light entertainment, Miss Summers, but after the events of last night I feel that we ought to have a serious conversation. I can assure you that is my sole intent in surprising you like this." He looked solemn and sincere when he spoke and she could almost believe him.

He departed in a whirl and she wasted precious minutes staring after him before rushing to her room to find something to wear. It wasn't long at all before they departed in a sumptuous private carriage and arrived minutes before the production started, thankfully late enough that she wasn't seen my anyone she knew. Buffy wondered if Angelus had planned things that way, but he gave her little time to puzzle it before he quickly escorted her to their seats.

They had a private box, naturally.

Buffy kept her eyes cast low and took in the sinuous pattern in the plush carpet. She was trying to prolong the walk to their appointed seats, as if lingering a few extra seconds could possible protect her, but Angelus' grip on her arm was strong and he did not seem inclined to indulge her desire for a delay. With her left arm on his right, he ensured that she kept up with him, smiling politely down at her when she stumbled slightly. In no time at all, they had climbed the stairs and were seated by a bored looking attendant who vanished all too quickly. The curtains were pulled to the side, ensuring that no one using the hallway behind them would disturb their box. As Buffy began the business of arranging her skirts, Mrs. Blighton's silent husband took his seat jerkily and collapsed. Buffy started, meaning to see what was wrong, but Angelus but his hand on her knee, and it might as well have been made of iron. She was properly scared at this point, and turned her head sharply to look at him, eyes wider than saucers.

"He's fine Buffy," he said smoothly, countenance still polite and friendly, and a little amused.

"He's a golom," said Mrs. Blighton, and as Buffy whipped her head around to look at the other woman she saw than her glamorous dress had become a staid, simple black gown, and that she had removed a large knitting project from her tiny reticule.

"And Mrs. Blighton is a witch," Angelus added. "I thought you might appreciate a little female company tonight, but didn't want any distractions."

Buffy's mind was spinning, and she fixed her gaze on Mr. Blighton again. Though he looked like a man, he was stiller than possible for a human to be, not breathing, or moving, or blinking. She felt cool fingers on her chin as Angelus slowly turned her head around to face him.

"Relax my dear," he said. "I thought this conversation might be tempered by a little light entertainment. And I so hate to be without company at the Opera." His smile was perfectly charming, and his eyes were dancing.

"I happened to see you cast a spell last night, as you very well know, but when I met you before, you hadn't performed any. It seems as though you are an uninitiated practitioner. It seems, if I may be frank, that you don't know what the hell you're doing."

Though she was no stranger to bad language, his use profanity still surprised Buffy, and she was shocked into silence by his declaration, so serious, yet simultaneously amused. It took her a moment to respond, but when she did so, it was with uncharacteristic caution.

"And if that were the case?" she replied, admitting nothing, jerking her chin out of his grasp. He leaned forward, and she was very aware of how large he was, and how that weird charisma he had made him seem even larger, even more imposing. He had what her mother might have called a presence. Buffy felt a pang of loss at the thought, but Angelus' reply forced her to refocus.

"Then the city of London is very lucky that you haven't blown up any significant parts of her domain, and your loved ones should count themselves fortunate that you're still alive, healthy, and from what I can see, relatively sane."

Buffy's eyes narrowed.

"I fear you may be exaggerating, Sir, because I must confess that in all the reading I've done no such warnings were present for the small maters I may have undertaken on my own," she replied, her tone frosty.

Angelus laughed, a full hearty thing, and the beauty of it made her catch her breath. When his gaze next met hers, his eyes glimmered with a kind of playful wickedness that did all sorts of sinful things to her thoughts.

"You have a temper, don't you my dear? And a quick wit to boot, though you demonstrated that clearly when we first met. But Miss Summers, I can assure you, the risks are very real."

"But you did not deny you were exaggerating," she countered, a little astonished at her own boldness. Angelus inclined his head towards her, a smile still dancing along the edges of his lips.

"I was a bit, yes," he admitted. "The worst kind of disasters do come from working powerful spells. If you made a mistake using a sewing needle, for instance, there is a reasonable limit to the damage you could so. With a sabre, the threat of harm is much more significant. So too is the case with magicks."

She nodded slowly.

"You can still damage yourself and others, and if you continue on your own long enough, without even learning the basics, you will. No, you need a teacher."

Buffy sat up straighter.

"You're not going to tell me to stop?" she said, a little bewildered.

"Hardly," Angelus replied. "I'd be a hypocrite if I did so, and though I've been worse things, I know that you would hardly listen to me even if I did."

That was probably true, Buffy thought. Angelus lay his hands over her left one, clenched around the arm of her chair, and she shivered. His hands were cool, and she could feel the strength that lay dormant there. His gaze, when it met hers, was compelling.

"You need a teacher," he repeated. Buffy's gaze drifted to Mrs. Blighton, but the witch was entirely caught up in her knitting, which, Buffy was beginning to realize, did not so much resemble a scarf as a great, woolly boat. The woman was either ignoring their conversation entirely or doing a very good job appearing as though she was. Buffy turned back to Angelus to find him amused.

"No, she's entirely too busy my dear," he told her.

"And I don't deal in amateurs," the woman added, without looking up.

"I'm offering my own time, sweet, and my own not inconsiderable knowledge. I've made a different sort of career for myself, but I have training and years of experience, and even though I may yet be called away for some reason or another, I can at least show you how to focus your mind, marshal your power, and give you the knowledge to prevent yourself from making the common fatal mistakes."

Buffy didn't respond.

"And make no mistake, the power is real, but fraught with danger," he continued, "this sort of thing not for the weak-willed." His eyes lingered on her and Buffy flushed under his frank appraisal, thrusting her chin higher. "I think," he said, "you may have what it takes…determination and strength…but you'll never get anywhere without a teacher, my dear."

"No?" she replied, inwardly quaking as she met his amused gaze. She tried to straighten subtly.

"No," he parroted back, with a cool smile.

"And I suppose you had a teacher?" she asked. His smile made her shiver, "Oh I had several," he said, pausing, "but the first went mad, the second tried to kill me, and the third…better not to think of it. By then I knew enough to continue on my own, picking up a spell here or there, some rituals, nothing too serious."

"That sounds like quite an undertaking," she said meeting his eyes. He smiled at her, and suddenly she felt more at ease, because this was a very different sort of smile than the ones he had worn earlier. She felt something uncoil in her chest and she relaxed.

"I won't lie to you," he said, eyes compelling her to agree, "if one doesn't know what one is doing things can become very dangerous indeed, but with caution and a good teacher…well the risks are minimal. And Buffy, the rewards are great. You saw Mrs. Brighton. As things stand now, she has the kind of freedom you could only dream of…and I think you're the sort of girl who doesn't like to be confined."

Buffy met his eyes and nodded slowly. He smiled again, richer, deeper, and leaned in. His breath was cool as he whispered to her. "I can teach you how to conjure spirits and elements," he said, "how to dull a man's mind or send him to do your bidding. I can teach you how to be powerful Buffy."

Their eyes locked. Her heart was thudding in her ears. Buffy moistened her lips, carefully, flushing when his gaze lingered on her mouth.

"And what's in it for you?" she asked. His eyes glittered.

"Aside from your charming company? I gain an acquaintance whom I don't need to lie to. Those are rare enough. I gain an opportunity to show off," he paused, continuing slyly, "and when I met you I warned you that was a bad habit of mine, did I not? London has another exclusive sort of society, one you couldn't dream of, and it would be a _pleasure_ to show it to you."

This was a terrible idea. She couldn't trust him, or be sure of his intentions. This was dangerous, and irresponsible. It was madness.

She locked eyes with him, responding to the earnest passion she saw there.

"Very well," she said. "Will you teach me?"

He lifted her hand to his lips and nodded. She felt dizzy as she watched him from beneath hooded eyes, and prayed she wasn't making a mistake.

When he woke late in the afternoon, Angelus could have laughed at his own good fortune. Buffy was amenable to his suggestion that she become his pupil, which gave him the perfect excuse to see her, and better yet, to see her in private. She was proving even more fascinating than he might have guessed.

It was strange, but when he'd coerced her into joining him at the opera after muddling the mind of Sir Giles' butler, he hadn't expected her to be so unconsciously charming, even seductive. She was an innocent, and she might not have been familiar with her own power, her feminine charm, but she exuded some delicious quality all the same.

Under better circumstances, a girl as pretty and confident as Buffy would have known how to play the flirt, certainly, but her appeal went beyond that. And she had been too flustered to try to charm him into submission, and likely too clever to try even under less threatening circumstances. No, her attractiveness wasn't reliant on any consciousness on her part. He wasn't drawn merely by her looks, her wit, her mannerisms, as delightful as he found them all. He was deeply fascinated by the very essence of the girl.

Angelus felt a rush of delight, of possessiveness just thinking about her, and he wondered if it was too soon to send her another gift. This time, it would be a practical one. Some tool of her own to work her will with. The beauty of an untutored mage was that they could be easily led. He didn't want Buffy succumbing to black magicks, or wasting away after using some dangerous spell, but he did want to see if he could help her get in touch with her darker nature.

Though everyone had some capability, some capacity for power, the amount that a person could harness varied greatly. The average person would never be capable of controlling the weather, or alchemy, or conjuring large objects. But plenty of useful spells didn't require great amounts of power, and with enough will, a person could learn all kinds of tricks. Angelus himself had no great power. What he had was the benefit of an immortal life, and the wealth of knowledge it brought.

It was unlikely that Buffy was unusually powerful, though she was proving a rare and unusual girl, but Angelus would try to ascertain the approximate depth of her power all the same before he really tried to teach her anything of importance. Given his plans for her, it would not be advantageous for him to teach her too much should she prove more powerful than him. But if she, like Angelus, had only an ordinary amount of power within her grasp, he would see what could be done to heighten her senses, to dazzle her mind, and to corrupt her.

Trapped inside by daylight, Angelus was feeling restless as he began laying out plans for Buffy. He'd slept for a few hours, but restlessly, his mind presenting tempting pictures of his latest obsession. He'd been as hard as a rock when he'd woken, and sought out Drusilla, who as receptive to her maker as ever. He hadn't wanted to look at her face, so he'd taken her bent over a chaise delighting in her screams as poor Will had stalked off in a sulk. Darla hadn't returned to the house the past night, so he hadn't been forced to deal with her, to his pleasure. He didn't suspect there was anything wrong with her though- despite the presence of the Council in London, the Slayer was rumored to be in Italy at the present and Darla hadn't lived as long as she had due to luck.

After leaving Drusilla in a puddle of blood and delighted moans, Angelus bathed and sent for a carriage. The sun had nearly slipped away and he felt relief at the lengthening of the days. He chucked Will under the chin on the way out- the boy was so pathetic when it came to his deranged consort.

"Chin up, boy," he ordered. "Moping about never did anyone good."

"Neither did you," Will grumbled, and because he was half-joking, Angelus let it go with no more than a chuckle.

He stepped out into the night air and inhaled deeply. Cities smelled, and vampires had sensitive noses, to say the least, but one quickly grew used to the myriad of stenches they proffered: sweat, waste, despair, fear, lust, and even death. He smiled a little at the thought, and wondered, not for the first time, how humans would react if they knew that some of their most unpleasant emotions were so enticing to their predators.

Still, tonight those sensations were not his aim. Angelus ambled up the street and hailed a cab. He ordered to driver to take him to his intended destination, eyeing one of the horses curiously. It looked perfectly healthy, but was near to death. He hoped it wouldn't keel over during _his_ journey.

As the cab jostled through London's busy streets on its way to Hatton Garden, Angelus mentally reviewed his plans. He wanted to keep Buffy intrigued, a little beholden, a little off-balance, and giving her another obscenely expensive gift was as good a method as any. The roses had been risky enough though, and he had only remembered the inconvenience Sir Giles could represent after he had already sent the order. Fortunately, the man had been out of town, and although Angelus couldn't be certain that the man even knew who he was, it was a risk he was unwilling to take. As of yet, the Watcher's Council didn't appear to be aware that he was in London (not that it might have mattered had they known- they'd already lost three of their girls to him in the last half-century) but he didn't want to give them warning unless it proved necessary. Mentally settling on a more private method of delivering, Angelus paid the driver and sent him on his way.

As he entered the Fabergé building he cursed his lack of reflection. It would prove an inconvenience tonight, he thought ruefully. The shop attendants were already preparing to close the store, but were professional enough to mask any disappointment at the potential prolonging of their shifts.

"Good evening, Sir," a moustached man in a smart suit greeted him. "Can I be of any service?" Angelus let his eyes wander over the sumptuous interior, taking in the exquisitely wrought finery with delight. He had something of an indulgent nature, and appreciated beauty even more when it was enhanced by the splendor only exorbitant riches could lend.

"Yes," he answered the attendant. "I would like to commission a mirror."

The man's eyes lit up, no doubt pleased to have been the one to greet him.

"Of course Sir, right this way," he said, gesturing to the left so that Angelus could lead the way. The vampire quirked a brow in amusement but followed the gesture, padding softly on the plush carpet. The store was less than a year old, opened following the success of the Russian and German branches, and it was clear that no expense had been spared with its design. Royalty's affinity for the exquisitely wrought pieces the company produced had granted them success on a scale most boutique jewelers and craftsmen could only dream of. He and Darla had gone during their years in Russia, and had been impressed by the quality of the work. It was clear that standards hadn't fallen in the years since.

The craftsman Angelus spoke to accepted his eccentricity without batting an eye, going so far as to assure him it was natural not to want to look at any of the mirrors the store already carried. For his part, Angelus accepted the insincere fawning with nothing more than a little amusement.

However the craftsman' attitude changed when Angelus presented him with the sketch he had made. The vampire smiled as he heard the other man catch his breath, and looked down with pride as the man poured over the detail in the drawing Angelus had been working on while trapped inside during the daylight.

Mirrors could be powerful tools, used not just for scrying and divination, but also conjuring, banishing, and even a few weather spells. The quality of the mirror had considerable impact on the usefulness of the tool, but so did more intangible qualities. A new mirror, untainted by others' reflections, was easier to focus with, but would also leave the caster unable to seek out the individuals that passed by it. The one that Angelus was commissioning for Buffy would also contain symbols worked into the large, decorative frame that would both enhance and restrict the user's focus depending on their intent. It would be a safe tool to use, and a useful one. But it would not allow her to seek out any of the undead, consciously or not, and if she tried to summon anything from other worlds, any creature or spirit would remain trapped and powerless in the mirror.

Yes, all in all, Angelus was quite pleased with his creation. He hoped Buffy would be too. No doubt the others would have grumbled about the expense, had they known, but he had long ago established his own accounts with the underground banks of Europe. Will had once accused him of being stingy when he had denied Drusilla some dress she had fancied, but after thrashing the other vampire, he had explained that he merely preferred not to pay for what they could procure through murder. The shopkeeper had screamed long and hard that night, and Angelus had delighted in his progeny's cruelty.

No, he could be generous when it suited him. He'd proved that only a week later when he'd taken Will on a weeklong side-trip through the casinos of Monte Carlo. They'd left Darla and Drusilla to entertain themselves, and blown through a ridiculous amount of money, drunk themselves silly, and finished off by massacring the other residents of their chalet. They'd been disappointed when it had been covered up, but Angelus had pragmatically pointed out that an appearance in the papers would just make it harder to pull off again. He smiled a little at the memory as he finished arranging the details of his order.

After arranging to collect the mirror when it was completed, Angelus set out into the city, now completely dark. He'd already fed the night before, and wasn't in the mood to hunt, unless some hapless prey stumbled across his path. What he really wanted to do was to see Buffy, but that wouldn't be wise only a night after their arrangement at the Opera.

The sky was dark, the smog and clouds blotting out any trace of starlight. All around him humanity walked a little faster, shuddering in the night. Was it the chill in the air that made them clutch their coats tighter, look about nervously, or was it something else? In the shadow of the gaslight, Angelus smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Well, here it is. A few days later than I would have liked, but I hope you enjoy the length of it. I've outlined the next two chapters, and I hope to have the next one up in a week or so (more likely to me 'or so' based on past trends, but give a girl credit for effort). Thanks again to my reviewers, particularly those who are kind enough to review nearly every chapter. That's tremendously encouraging._**

* * *

There was something almost sinister in the yellow patterned wallpaper that decorated the Chases' parlor, a kind of creeping malevolence that slowly suffocated one's will to live. The oppressive feeling in the room made Buffy glance anxiously at the grandfather clock, sure that time could not be sliding by so slowly. Then again, that sensation might merely have been due the presence of Harmony Kendall.

Cordelia's sometime friend, and longtime disciple, a fixture on the London social scene had joined Buffy, Cordelia, Cordelia's mother, Mrs. Chase, and Cordelia's aunt, Lady Marlowe for afternoon tea. And worse, she had brought her own mother.

Buffy suffered the other girl on occasion, and could admit, at times, to being considerably more shallow and frivolous than her current state permitted, but that did not do much to dispose her more kindly to the other girl. With her sleek blonde hair, bright eyes, and ample bosom, Harmony was a particular kind of English beauty that, possessed with a different sort of temperament, might have already been affianced. Her mother was much the same, only further encumbered with two extra decades of mind-numbing stories. Buffy had wondered once how the Baroness had managed to marry. Willow had helpfully informed her the Baron was her cousin. Buffy thought it explained rather a lot.

She might have been able to tolerate them better, had it not been for their repeated and tactless expressions of sympathy for her loss. Even Mrs. Chase, who was hardly a subtle creature herself, had the grace to look a bit embarrassed on behalf of her guests.

"It's just so tragic," Lady Kendall sighed again, peering over Buffy's shoulder to get a better look at her reflection in the glass of the windows. Buffy wondered idly how tragic it would be if she threw her cup at the woman's head and struck her permanently dumb. Sinking a little further into the plush velvet of her chair, she instead fixed the woman with an inscrutable stare that she'd found useful in the face of such expressions of sympathy.

Grief, she had found, was a private sort of animal. Like a cat, it would enter one's home and nest among the intimate parts of their daily lives. Buffy could hardly see a dress without thinking about how she cajoled her father into buying it for her, could hardly look at the fish on the dinner table without becoming almost tearful at the memory of her mother's aversion to it. Each day, each hour, each infinite minute would bring strange new associations. Yet eventually, things became a little tamer, a little easier to bear. The tears in the fabric of one's life became ordinary, and no longer provoked fresh emotion when one saw them again.

Buffy found comfort in the shared grief of a few close friends, people who either knew Hank and Joyce, or else knew her well enough to empathize and mourn with her. Giles had proved surprisingly, mysteriously empathetic and kind, breaching the Englishman's characteristic reserve to speak with her frankly and emotionally. She wondered even more what the real extent of her mother's relationship with her old friend was, particularly since he had been entrusted with her future, albeit, by slightly unusual circumstances.

Buffy returned back to the present to find Mrs. Chase giving her a look of concern, which embarrassed her slightly, as it indicated she'd been lost in thought for much longer than was normal, and even hinted that her countenance might have been a little disturbing. Oliva Chase was dressed elegantly in a cream colored gown that should have looked out of place on a woman of her years, but which she managed to pull off with her characteristic confidence and grace, traits she had passed down to her daughter. The daughter of a prosperous manufacturer from a less than exalted background, she had nonetheless not only managed to marry into an old English family, but also managed to avoid any of the indignities characteristically heaped on American women of her background. Her husband had actually followed her back to Boston and though Buffy wasn't particularly impressed with the man, his respect for his wife was clear. Most of the marriages between American heiresses and penniless English aristocrats did not end up nearly as successfully as theirs had.

"Have you seen young Mr. Fordham lately," Mrs. Chase asked her, and Buffy shot Cordelia a quick look before she answered.

"Not for some time," she said, keeping her tone light. "I've had a dearth of chaperones lately, though we did manage a stroll in Hyde Park a week or so ago." Mrs. Chase nodded, no doubt added the information to her mental encyclopedia of gossip.

"A nice enough young man," she conceded, which was high praise indeed from her. "He's quite handsome too, don't you agree."

"Oh yes," Harmony jumped in. Cordelia shot her a quelling look. The dynamic between the two girls shifted frequently enough that Buffy was never quite sure where they stood. The same was true enough of her own relationship with Cordelia, for that matter.

"I suppose," Buffy demurred. She'd hardly thought of him recently, she realized.

"Or course," Mrs. Kendall added knowingly, "not quite so attractive as Lord Pimplington."

Buffy frowned. The name (unfortunate as it was) was not one with which she was familiar.

"Oh!" Mrs. Kendall said, affecting a little laugh, "Naturally, I forgot that you haven't been with us much lately, Buffy. He's newly arrived back from India, and ever so in high demand. We really were quite lucky to have him to dinner. Fortunately, my husband's cousin's son was on the same assignment, and when he passed on the invitation Henry was only too charmed to say no. I found him quite impressive, don't you agree?"

Mrs. Chase nodded in agreement. "Quite the dashing young hero."

Cordelia rolled her eyes, clearly impatient with the topic of conversation, and mentioned some other piece of gossip that soon had them all distracted.

Later, as Buffy and Cordelia were saying their goodbyes, Cordelia caught her wrist gently and leaned in. Buffy's eyes widened in surprise and she looked around carefully, but no one was paying the pair any attention.

"I didn't know the others would be here today," she hissed. Buffy continued to look at her, nonplussed. Cordelia rolled her eyes impatiently, tossing neat curls over her shoulder.

"I need to talk to you," she said, and then, moderating her tone, "about Xander."

Buffy nodded quickly, her mind whirling. With all excitement first discovering magicks, and then with Angelus, she had hardly given a thought to the once world-shattering notion that Cordelia Chase was harboring affections for the relatively penniless Captain Harris, who, his rank in the army notwithstanding, was hardy a social success. Her lack of consideration for the matter had meant that she hadn't even given much thought to where her loyalties lied- for who would she support, Cordelia or Willow? Willow had been infatuated with Xander since they were children, but he had always viewed her, at least as far as Buffy could tell with brotherly affection (and Willow often complained about it) . In fact, Xander had indicated to Buffy when the two had first been introduced that he had gained some measure of regard for her, though she did her best to gently discourage his feelings.

"Shall we meet at Burlington Arcade?" Buffy suggested. "Or I could call around two and we could go together." Cordelia nodded. Even if others joined them on a shopping expedition, it was easy enough to carry on a discreet conversation in the midst of so many other persons. And they both enjoyed the pursuit for its own merits, besides.

"I'll wait for you here," Cordelia decided. With a quick smile, Buffy departed, and as she settled back into her cab and the driver set the horses off, she considered all the dramatic events that seemed to be piling up. It seemed so long ago she had longed for adventure, for excitement. The last year, and even the last few weeks had brought more intrigue, grief, and mystery than she knew what to do with. Exhausted, she decided to close her eyes, and somehow managed to doze lightly as the cab bounced gently down the London streets that led to Giles' house.

Davis, back to his usual self after his strange absentmindedness on the eve of Angelus' visit, opened the door the moment Buffy set foot on the steps to the front entrance, and she gratefully hurried in out of the rain. The day had started out promisingly enough, with some weak sunlight threatening to break through the clouds, but as was so common in England, it had turned fair and then foul by turns. Despite the relative lack of time Buffy had been exposed to the rain she found herself rather damp, and shook her hair out with an expression of wry amusement.

"Welcome back, Miss Summers," she was greeted.

"Thank you, Davis," she replied, wiping her neat leather boots on the rough carpet designed to catch dirt. He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Sir Giles requested that you meet him in his study, Miss," he added, and Buffy nodded in response, handing him her umbrella and making her way up to Giles' preferred sanctuary. He had been away on business in Yorkshire, though what he was doing there she hadn't the faintest idea. Like so many gentlemen of his generation, he had inherited a good deal of money, but found that his returns were diminishing, and so deigned to dip his hands into the grubby world of business. The aristocrats who had so long turned up their noses at merchants had insisted that their forays into industry were mere hobbies, but at the same time many of them had relented and gradually let that particular form of snobbery begin what was sure to be a prolonged and fitful death.

Giles' father, who he had only spoken of in passing, had invested in publishing or something of that sort, and his son, as far as Buffy could tell, did something that was peripheral to hobby of collecting rare books and other antiquities. He certainly seemed to have a great number of connections at the British Museum.

This particular trip had seen him gone the better part of the week, and as Buffy entered the comfortably appointed room, with its mahogany bookcases and curious mementos, he apologized for it.

"I only meant to be away for half a week, at most," he assured her, peering over his spectacles with concern. Buffy smiled reassuringly at him, touched at his concern.

"I do hope you haven't felt neglected," he added, frowning briefly at his desk.

"I've been keeping busy," she told him. "Seeing friend and the like." Giles nodded.

"Hmm, yes. The Chases are still in town, aren't they?" he remarked, "And I understand you and Miss Rosenburg are on good terms?" Buffy nodded.

"Her father's quite a remarkable mathematician," he continued. "Not particularly interested in engaging with societies or giving talks at universities, mind you, but his theoretical mathematics are really quite brilliant, particularly once one takes into account the amount of time he must spend running his business."

Buffy had only met the man in passing. Her opinion of his worth as a parent wasn't characterized by any amount of esteem.

"How was your trip?" she asked. Giles immediately looked more animated.

"Oh, very fruitful," he said, his pale eyes lighting up in excitement. "I came across some of the most remarkable manuscripts from the 15th century I've seen outside a museum. Some of those old country houses have truly remarkable collections, and are all the more remarkable because the inhabitants haven't disturbed them in centuries. Do you know, I met a country squire who, despite his relatively modest seat, had a very ancient lineage, and the man had some very early editions of Marlowe's plays? The man had no idea who the playwright even was! I must say, if that's the way that men of his generation are being educated then it's no wonder this country is going to the," and here he broke off, looking embarrassed, "well, no matter. I managed to convince him to part with the texts, but it took the better part of the week, and I was comfortably enough entertained while I was there. I was visiting an old friend from my Oxford days. I must introduce him to you sometime. His name is John Barrington, and he's wonderful company, in addition to being a talented critic. You might have come across some of his work in various journals, and he'd just completed a treatise on _The Tempest_ which is really quite good."

Buffy nodded and smiled.

"I've told him he must come up to London soon," Giles added. "I know I'm not the most sociable man in town, and that many of my companions are of more interest to an old bachelor like myself than a young girl, but I don't want to see you cut off or isolated. Your mother-" And here he broke of, and became silent for a moment before coughing.

"Well, I hope to have a few dinner parties now that the true season has more or less ended. I prefer the more informal affairs, and I hope that I won't be imposing on you if I ask you to act as hostess."

Buffy blushed, pleased with the measure of regard and responsibility he had granted her, and also at the notion of hosting a few parties. It wasn't uncommon for a girl her age to do so for a widowed father or bachelor uncle, but it was still a mark of respect, and an acknowledgement that she was a woman ready to be married, rather than a silly girl too young to pay much mind to.

Inexplicably, her mind drifted to Angelus, and she wondered if his name would appear on Giles' guest list, or if she could see to it that it was added there.

"I thought we would have an informal dinner tonight," Giles added, glancing at the clock. "I fear I run the risk of growing rotund should I spend another evening enjoying someone else's hospitality. But I thought that tomorrow we might go to my club and I can introduce you to some of the gentlemen there. Women are allowed in for lunch on certain days and no one much objects to their presence anymore." His smile was wry.

"That would be nice," Buffy allowed.

They continued talking for some time, before realizing that the hour for dinner was approaching, and Buffy excused herself to her room to put away some of her things before they ate.

As she took the stairs to her room she paused halfway up, suddenly guilty. If the spell she had cast earlier had worked, she should know it when she entered her room. That should have been a matter of excitement. Yet she couldn't help think that while her guardian was away, she had been practicing something dangerous and somehow illicit under his roof. She was half tempted to rush back down the stairs and confess everything to him. But what would he say? He might very well think her mad- for the presence of books about magicks did not indicate, on their own, that he gave any weight to their contents. Giles had all kinds of books, among them ancient and absurd bestiaries, collections of myths, and lots of rare and delicate bibles. He'd certainly never given her any indication he believed in anything at all, which, though not as scandalous or uncommon as it would have been a century ago, still raised eyebrows in polite society. This was, after all, still _England_. From pejorative remarks made in her presence, Buffy understood that the French intellectual set had rather different views and values.

Shaking off her speculations, Buffy entered her room with baited breath, feeling slightly absurd as she stepped softly to the center of her room. Immediately, she felt suffused with warmth, and she laughed in delight. She rotated slowly on her heel, beaming. She hadn't lied to Angelus when she'd told him that the spell she'd chosen wasn't dangerous- or at least, wasn't compared to some of the stories he'd told her. Summoning and conjuring could be dangerous, if one was summoning spirits or demons or something awful. Elements were apparently easier to handle, though still risky. But warmth- the sensation of sunlight on one's skin- well, that she had managed.

She longed to tell Willow, and resolved that after she met with Cordelia, she would make sure to see her other friend in private. Then, perhaps, she could gauge the depths of Willow's affections for Xander and appraise the other girl of her own recent success. Furthermore, Willow was the only person Buffy felt she could confide in with regards to her new relationship with Angelus. She wondered if she should ask the man to help her friend as well, and if Willow would even want to learn from him.

Willow was so incredibly clever that Buffy thought she could be a rather poor student at times- she never wanted to listen to what anyone else had to tell her and preferred to figure things out on her own. She couldn't, even based on the little she knew of him, see Angelus taking very kindly to that. But if anyone was capable of learning something difficult and dangerous on their own, it was her shy and clever friend, and Buffy resolved to tell her everything that she was taught so the other girl would still benefit from her own luck in having a knowledgeable neighbor.

Still, Buffy could also admit that a part of her wanted to keep Angelus to herself. Walking slowly to her wardrobe, she put away her reticle, and contemplated what her true intentions were. She couldn't deny that she found the man incredibly attractive. He had a kind of compelling, masculine beauty that made her heart beat faster every time she saw him. He was certainly a few years older than she was- he looked to be in his mid-twenties, though she thought he was probably older than that. Yet she couldn't see him courting her for marriage. And that was really the only acceptable sort of romantic relationship she could have.

She chastised herself of even thinking of romance, yet it _did_ seem that he was taken with her. He had sent her the roses the night after they had first met, had he not? Shaking herself, she hastened to the door. She'd dallied too long, and needed to get to dinner. But she would definitely be sure to try to get a better read on Angelus the next time she saw him. Shivering at the thought, she went to join Giles.

The scene was something out a gothic novel: a young girl, tall, slim, and elegant, stood alone in the middle of a deserted street. The moon was out, and it lit her face, emphasizing her pallor and the fine lines of her features. She was obviously well bred, yet her dress was ill fitting, too tight and short despite the almost shocking slenderness of the girl.

Angelus took in the picture with pleasure, already contemplating how some of the lines might look sketched out in charcoal. She shivered, and wrapped her arms around her body, utterly alone and friendless.

Well, the latter was true.

Two men, ruffians by the looks of them, stole out from one of the nearby alleys and approached the girl. She watched them warily, first shrinking back, and then, as if unable to help herself, stepping lightly forward to meet them.

"I fear I am lost," she began, interjecting the right note of panic and hopefulness into her voice.

"Lost, is ye?" one of the men asked. "Well where do ye need to be?" The girl looked at him gratefully, less wary than before.

"Kensington," she said. "Is it far?" Her luminous eyes were full of hope. Only the curve of her mouth hinted at hidden amusement.

"Aye," the larger man said, "far enough." He lunged for her and only half a beat passed before his companion followed suit. But before the second man could take more than a step forward, he found himself caught by the throat, and his bark of alarm prompted the other man, his hands already on Drusilla's shoulders, to turn.

What he saw shocked him into stillness. Before he could recover, nimble fingers gouged his eyes, and he let out a strangled scream. His vision thus stolen, he was unable to watch as a handsome man with wild curls beat his companion, before draining him of blood. But for several excruciating minutes he could hear it.

He tried to scream, but a large hand more than adequately forced his jaw shut, and little more than muffled moans escaped despite his best efforts.

"Looks like you're next," a low baritone murmured after his friend had ceased to make noise. He was tossed into a wall and had the wind knocked out of him. As he gasped for breath, his attacker ended him, tearing deeply into his throat and draining him in a matter of minutes.

Angelus grinned at Will and Drusilla, who had watched him finish the second thug with varying degrees of interest. Drusilla was sucking at the tips of her bloody fingers, as she stared at the moon. England always seemed to make her a little madder, as though the effects of what he'd done to her were more potent in the country where she'd lived and died.

Angelus and William each dragged a body to an alley, dumping them carelessly on the ground. They would be discovered tomorrow by the locals who, more than used to violence in this neighborhood, would likely dispose of them with little fuss. The disappearance of two ruffians would be unlikely to trouble the police or catch the attention of the authorities.

William's eyes were still glinting gold as they walked back to Drusilla, and Angelus felt a rush of amusement to see the other man so eager. No doubt the 'rescue' they'd mounted appealed to those lingering romantic sensibilities of his.

Drusilla kissed him deeply, licking the blood from his mouth as Angelus watched them with a certain kind of affection. He'd felt more mellow since his meeting with Buffy, and though he was eager to see her again, he was distracted enough that tormenting the pair didn't really appeal to him. He found that he was taking more pleasure in their company than he had in nearly a year. Drusilla parted from Will to sway up to her maker, and he favored her with a wicked smile.

"Mmm, you're thinking about someone else," she said, eyes far away. She pouted momentarily, but brightened and focused on his eyes as Will hovered behind her.

"She's going to be delicious," Drusilla assured him, and Angelus smiled.

"I'm sure she will be," he replied, "but let's keep her a secret for now." Drusilla giggled, pleased at the thought.

"Naughty," she said, "But I suppose that will make her even sweeter. Like honey in the sun."

"Hmm?" Will asked, burying his face in her neck.

"Effulgent," Drusilla added, and she and Angelus exchanged amused smiles.

"You heard the lady," Angelus said, mock stern. "Let's move on. She still needs her supper."

"I want a little girl with pretty curls," Drusilla said, batting her eyes coquettishly. Will spun her around and she smiled at him. Angelus shook his head indulgently.

"Whatever you like," he replied.

The former owners of the house Angelus currently occupied had possessed a decent collection of books. Evidently, the man of the house had access to one of the better purveyors of illicit books that the city had to offer, and like many of the other men who indulged their darker desired, he had purchased a few tomes about black magicks. Only two of the books had any real power, and they weren't the sort he was planning on introducing to Buffy, or at least, not before he had taught her some self-control.

He chuckled at the thought, his mind quickly changing the already pleasant scene of his own self and Buffy alone, the girl with a book in hand, into a decidedly sexual one. That might take a few weeks, or even months to accomplish, but he had every confidence in his ability to make it so. He ran through a few bookstores in his mind, trying to recall which might have the sort of thing he was looking for. But before he was able to dismiss more than a handful as out of business or unsuitable, Darla strode in, looking more disheveled than he had seen her in a decade.

Angelus looked at her ragged appearance in surprise. She snarled at him, shifting into her vampiric visage, and he instantly tensed up. But she made no move to attack him.

"Where the hell have you been?" she hissed. He paused a beat, and then replied.

"Here and there. More here than there." His tone was light, but he watched her carefully, wary of her rage. "Where have you been?"

"I," Darla replied, striding further into the library before collapsing on an out of date armchair, glowering up at him, "have been hiding from fucking vampire hunters in a goddamn _sewer_."

Well, that explained the smell. Angelus frowned.

"Here, in London? Why didn't you just kill them?" She let out a hair-raising snarl in response.

"I would have, you idiot, if I could have. These weren't the bungling fools who practically fall on the fangs of anyone older than a decade- they were smart, they were prepared. They had clothes drenched in holy water and devices that fired stakes. I couldn't just kill them. I tried, and got this for my trouble," she snapped, holding up red palms with the distinctive look of skin healing from burns.

Angelus winced, but figuring the likelihood of an attack was no longer high, he turned his back momentarily, to look at the fire.

"Could they have been from the Council?" he asked.

"I doubt it," Darla replied, "they didn't seem to have any idea who I was. And they weren't spouting the usual religious rubbish. They didn't have anything to say to me at all." Angelus scowled. Vampire hunters were bad enough, but those who lacked the connections to concrete bases would be the most difficult to eliminate. The Watcher's Council moved locations several times throughout their history in London, but their current headquarters, though heavily warded, had been pinpointed within the vicinity of a block by some more enterprising types. The Church was generally less of a threat in Britain, since the Anglicans put less credence in demons as a rule. There were still some remnants of ancient orders, but all in all, the island was relatively safe compared with other parts of Europe. One had to be a bit more discreet of course, in order to keep it that way, but all in all, Darla's discovery of a new threat was as surprising as it was unwelcome.

"I assume you were gone for so long in order to make sure they couldn't follow you here," he said. She nodded, still disgruntled.

"I see you made no move to find me," she accused. Angelus turned back to face her and rolled his eyes.

"I assumed you'd found something to amuse you," he replied. "And in any event, I generally assume you're capable of looking after yourself."

"Would you even care if I died?" she snapped. Angelus avoided the question.

"Well Darla, I must confess that's a bit much coming from you. Or do you not recall leaving me to burn after running away?"

She scowled, but couldn't deny what she'd done.

"We need to leave," she said instead. Angelus turned to face her, slightly incredulous.

"Leave," he said, "on behalf of a pair of trumped-up hunters? I don't think so." Darla sneered at him. Angelus had rarely been the sort to run away from a fight, a fact which had caused them trouble on more than one occasion.

"I don't think that's your decision to make," she snapped. He raised an eyebrow sardonically.

"Well, I certainly won't be making it for _you_ ," he replied. She frowned, but understood the implications in his phrasing.

"I want to go to Rome," she said instead. Angelus shrugged. The city had its charms, it was true. He wouldn't be opposed to going there after his business in London was finished.

"So go," he said. It would hardly be the first time he and Darla went their separate ways. Actually, having Darla out of the way for a few months would make the whole business with Buffy considerably easier. He could have his way with the girl and turn her without any interference from his temperamental sire. More than once she'd tired of his dalliances and put an end to them by permanently ending the life of whichever hapless mortal or self-assured demoness had caught his attention.

She scowled at him again, but was apparently resigned that he wouldn't be joining her.

"When will you be done here?" she asked, clearly regarding the question as a matter beneath her dignity. Angelus shrugged.

"Hard to say. I'd like to find those hunters of yours."

"I'd like to see you find them," she muttered. He grinned in response.

"I won't have Drusilla or her little poet with me," Darla warned. Angelus shrugged. That was fine with him. They could fend for themselves well enough, and if they were truly concerned with the danger he might send them elsewhere, but for now he thought it might suit him to have them nearby.

As he watched her, Darla slowly relaxed before his eyes. She still smelled a bit though. As he smirked a little at the thought, she stood and shrugged out of her dress. His gaze immediately became hooded, and he watched with pleasure as she stripped out of her dirty clothing. She slinked over to his side and ran an arm down his chest, her hand resting just above his trousers.

"I'll leave at next nightfall," she said, taking a step closer. Her gaze was coy, and Angelus smiled to see it.

"I suppose you'll be busy packing and the like," he suggested, but made to move to walk away from her.

"Not too busy for a proper goodbye," she assured him, and ripped off his shirt. He laughed, amused and a little angry and they made quick work of the rest of his clothing before they tumbled to the floor, battling for dominance. They mated savagely, their maneuverings from the past years forgotten as they found equilibrium.

Darla groaned as he bucked beneath her, scratching his chest with her nails. She leaned in suddenly and he opened his eyes to see her gaze fixed on him.

"Leave with me," she moaned. "You'll miss this." Angelus gave a laugh which quickly turned into a low growl as they continued their frenzied pace.

"Not as much as you will," he taunted. She hissed and drew blood. He sucked in an unnecessary breath and rolled them over, the force of it sending Darla into orgasm, where he immediately followed.

He nipped at her neck and licked up the small amount of stolen blood he'd drawn. Darla let out a satisfied sigh before she opened her eyes.

"Leave with me," she urged for a final time, her blue eyes burning brightly. She had rarely looked so beautiful to him in the last few years as she did in that moment, and he almost agreed. But then he thought of Buffy, lovely and clever and teasing and innocent. He thought of what she would look like lying beneath him as Darla had been scant moments ago.

"No," he said, and smiled at her in amusement as her eyes narrowed. She rolled them over, pushing his shoulders to the ground with more force than was strictly needed and climbed off of him.

He remained recumbent on the carpet, watching her as she decided her dress couldn't be salvaged. Her ice blue eyes met his own, their determination and cunning apparent, and he felt another irrepressible rush of appreciation for her. Perhaps he had forgotten too much of their history together in the aftermath of that disastrous fire. He would never trust her again, or return to that devotion she'd inspired when she'd first made him, but Darla would always be his sire.

"Rome in six months," she reminded him, glaring at his lazy position. His head, propped up by an errant arm, dipped in acknowledgement. Her gaze swept over his nude form for a final time, and they each gave each other a mocking smirk before she swept out of the library, not bothering with her dress or underthings.

Angelus wrinkled his nose in disgust and got off the floor. As he fed her things to the fire, he thought about what had just transpired. On the whole, he was pleased. Six months ought to be more than enough time to amuse himself with Buffy, and while Darla might not be pleased to see him with a new companion when he met her in Rome, what of it?

She'd accepted Drusilla, though Angelus' childe had more of his attention than she did for nearly a decade. Of course, Drusilla was mad, and hardly a threat to the other vampiress' position. Still, Darla would learn to tolerate Buffy. She wouldn't have much of a choice.

The threat of the vampire hunters was concerning. He would have to see to it that Drusilla and William were properly warned of the danger. He would make it clear to them that they were to abide by his rules, and that they wouldn't draw too much attention to themselves until he was ready to go. When that would be depended largely upon Buffy. He resolved to write her a note that night, and see to it that it appeared in her room by morning. Her first lesson in magicks would be as soon as he could manage it.


	6. Chapter 6

**_My apologies for the tardiness and brevity of this particular chapter. I've become a lot busier than I anticipated and had a bit of writers block with regards to this particular chapter- on the bright side, the next chapter is outlined and I hope that I won't take so long again. I edited this right after finishing it, which might mean that I've allowed a few more typos to slip though than normal, so if you catch any, drop me a line and I'll try to fix them. Hope everyone is enjoying their summers! My continued thanks for the encouraging reviews!_**

* * *

The mouse's heart must have given out, for it fell over softly on its side and ceased to breathe.

"Oh," Buffy breathed out, surprised at how _good_ it had felt.

Angelus watched her carefully from his seat across the small table they had arranged themselves around in the library of his house. The room was of a decent size, but despite the high ceilings it managed to feel cozy. The windows were covered with heavy velvet drapes and lit with a multitude of candles. Buffy could easily forget that it was early afternoon. But in this particular moment she had other things on her mind.

"That was-"

"Yes," he said with a smile, satisfied.

"But," she began again, "wasn't it- well- bad?" She regarded the little animal, curled up and still with guilt. Mice died of course, but she had never been the direct cause of it before. They had traps and cats for that sort of thing. Angelus looked torn between amusement and disapproval.

"Morality's subjective," he said, "it constantly changes depending chiefly on what's convenient, who's in charge, the religion of the era, and any number of other subjective factors. Ignore it. It's worthless."

She looked at him in surprise. He had always projected an air of unconventionality but this was something else altogether, something dangerous. She was suddenly acutely aware of her situation- alone with this man in his house by his invitation- an invitation which had appeared in her room sometime before she rose in the morning. It had flustered her, but when she's asked, as casually as she could manage if he'd sent someone into her room he'd merely laughed and replied 'Magicks, sweet girl'. It had merely put her further off balance.

"But you can't just-"she argued now, flustered, "there are _rules_." She glanced away, flushing at her inarticulate response but turned back to be surprised by the uncompromising expression on his face.

He looked at her with a sudden cold intensity that took her breath away.

"Yes. There are," he said. "What of it? In some parts of the world you would be stoned to death for the cut of the dress you're wearing. In others, I might be killed and eaten if I arrived as an outsider. Rules are for the stupid and the self-righteous. The powerful, the passionate, are not so easily bound by restraints." From the tone of his voice it was clear that he believed utterly in what he was saying, and furthermore, that he was challenging her.

"But rules, laws, and yes- morality- they're what make society function," Buffy argued. "Without them, we're little better than animals. And that- what I just did- it's cruelty in a way- and that's wrong!"

He laughed then. The loudness of it startled her.

"My poor innocent darling," he began, eyes glinting, "have you only ever known kindness? Shall I have to introduce you to cruelty? I suppose if ever there was a child likely to only receive sweetness, it would be you, but-"

"I'm not a child!" she interrupted angrily, spots of color appearing in her cheeks. Her hands were clenched into fists and she only just prevented herself from leaping out of her chair.

Angelus stilled, looking at her with glimmering eyes. He was silent for a moment as he examined her, and Buffy began to feel uncomfortable.

"No," he allowed, "You are not a child. You are young, and innocent, and though you might protest it, very naïve, but you are not a child. So stop acting like one. _The world is cruel_ and it is full of people low and high who, unconsciously or not, adapt that cruelty. You are not unintelligent, nor," he continued softly, "are you weak. You have power Buffy, even if you have barely just begun to understand it. And I'm not just speaking of magicks now. You are not a child, and you would do well to start thinking about what that means."

Silence sat between them, a dark animal slumbering. More than ever, Buffy felt she was on a precipice, swaying in the wind. But what lay on either side of the thin edge she danced on was a mystery. She wondered if she would find out before she fell.

xxx

Willow was looking well. Wickedness suited her.

She had joined Buffy for the afternoon at Giles', and though the two girls were taking care to save their more delicate secrets for when they felt most assured of being alone, they had plenty of other gossip and news to feed their conversation. Willow shared Buffy's eagerness about the dinner party she was planning on holding in a day's time. It would be a relatively informal affair, and Giles had assured her that his friends were not the sort who held it against a hostess should her arrangements be anything less than perfect and exorbitant, but Buffy still wanted it to go off without a hitch. She'd already planned the meal, after consulting with Giles and Jenny, who had kindly helped her arrange matters and the servants would take care of setting the table with the good silver. Willow's parents rarely entertained, and when they did Shelia naturally managed things, but Buffy's friend shared her eagerness and was generous enough to listen to her petty worries about the whole affair.

For her part, Buffy had listened to Willow share some old bits of gossip and recall the two parties that she had lately been in attendance for. They passed an hour or more in such a manner before they felt safe enough to talk intimately about more delicate matters.

"So much has happened," Buffy whispered to her friend, eyes wide and eager "I have so much to tell you!" Willow looked equally as excited, her pale face practically glowing. Her smile was eager, and even a little sly.

"So do I!" She exclaimed. "Buffy, you wouldn't believe what I managed to do the other day! I was reading the Copier Compendium, and I realized that theories about transfiguring some object into another, the things that sound like the old stories of alchemy, they bear a startling resemblance to some of the more recent scientific theories about elements and atoms!" She continued speaking at a rapid pace and Buffy quickly found herself lost. When Willow paused for breath some minutes later Buffy blinked owlishly at her for a moment. Buffy was by no means as silly or frivolous as she sometimes pretended, but Willow's genius occasionally managed to leave her stupefied. After a moment, she laughed.

"Oh Willow," she said, "leave it to you to make something that seems as fun and free as this into something so academic and difficult."

Willow blushed a little, but nothing could repress the excitement that she exuded.

"Some more recent theoretical physics bear a startling resemblance to the discussions about conjuring and creating things out of nothing," she clarified, beaming, before launching into a more detailed description of the merits of different theories and their bearing to the reading she had done.

Buffy listened in amazement as her friend continued. She had always known Willow was smart, but sometimes forgot just how smart she really was. She should have been a man, and gone to Oxford or Cambridge and studied something obscure and amazing. The University of London had just begun to admit a handful of women to its degrees, but it was unheard of for a woman of their class to attend, and Buffy couldn't imagine Willow's parents, permissive though they usually were, to allow her to attend.

Hearing about Willow's successes and experiments made Buffy feel a lot better about her own small success, and her confusion about what to do about Angelus. Willow evidently needed little help in learning. Still, Buffy began to tell her about the encounter with a considerable amount of apprehension. Willow, for her part, remained as an expressive audience as ever, gasping in shock as Buffy told her about her fear of being caught

"Incredible," the redhead muttered at the end of it. She looked remote for a moment, and Buffy was sure she was taking in details and considering possibilities that probably hadn't occurred to her.

"It does seem a shocking coincidence," Willow said, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. She looked up to smile at Buffy's undisguisedly eager gaze.

"What do you make of him?" she asked. Buffy frowned a little.

"It's so hard to know," she said pensively, "What I mean to say is… I mean, I still feel as though I hardly know him. I suppose I should ask him about where he's from, what his family is like, and try to discover ore of him… and it's not as though he hasn't told me some of his encounters, but I only have small pieces of the whole picture of a man, and I suspect he's a man who's very hard to know."

Willow nodded thoughtfully. "Buffy, are you taken with him?" Buffy blushed a little in response.

"I mean, he's very handsome," Buffy admitted. "More than handsome. And he knows so much and he's been so many places and when he's around he'd just got this presence…it's like the lights dim around everything else and he's practically all I can see."

Willow smiled again. "I know how that can be," she said, eyes fond and remote. Buffy winced inwardly. Perhaps telling Willow about Cordelia and Xander might not be such a wise decision. It might be better to preserve her deceit a little longer- ideally some new attractive man would come on the scene and fall in love with her friend immediately and expressively. Or else things might become very awkward very quickly.

XXX

London was a large city. London was a dangerous city. London held murderers and monsters in her perfumed arms and hid them from their enemies, brave men who risked their lives hunting those who were their natural predators.

Angelus stalked a man in near darkness, creating no more sound than the faint, though unmistakable, splashing of wet footsteps. Ahead of him, a man, his heart racing, ran down the sewer in an attempt to escape the predator behind him. Angelus allowed him to get ahead. He was in little enough hurry, and by his calculations, he could overcome the man in a matter of seconds should he need to. Besides, it was miles before the next opening that would allow the man to escape to safety above ground.

The man, little more than a boy, was not even the true object of Angelus' hunt. It was his partner, currently attempting to follow him through the tunnels beneath the city, who was the one likely to have information he might be… persuaded to share.

Earlier that day he had received a message from an old acquaintance, a vampire who went by the name Geoffrey. Unlike Angelus and his brethren, he preferred to stay in London, where he had carved out a certain amount of territory and power that satisfied him well enough that he wasn't tempted to explore the continent. Angelus privately disdained his way of living, but nevertheless respected him enough not to give offence when the other vampire had proved amiable enough in the past. Geoffrey was very willing to provide Angelus with the information he sought, and had already been made aware of the presence of new vampire hunters in the city. They had apparently arrived shortly before Angelus and his family had, and had made quick work of many of the scattered and unattached minions and fledges within the city.

This was an inconvenience to the more powerful demons who resided there, but they didn't truly recognize the extent of the threat until more powerful nests began to disappear. There had been suggestions that the Slayer was among them, but she was reportedly elsewhere and it soon became apparent that the new group of hunter, whoever they were, were not members of the Watcher's Council.

What they did know was that they hunted in pairs or in small groups. Two had been killed together, but their bodies had, upon their deaths, had burned. Searching them might have yielded more information, and it appeared that the hunters were practical enough to take precautions to prevent it. The spell was a clever bit of sorcery that Angelus wouldn't mind knowing. If all went well he might be able to pry the information out of someone very soon.

Angelus ducked into the shadows at the intersection of two tunnels and waited. His eyesight and senses being what they were, he had no need for the torchlight that his prey were using. The soft footsteps behind him began to slow. He didn't bother to turn around, but waited until his pursuer mustered up his courage and moved to strike.

A crossbow bolt made an unnaturally loud sound as it struck the wall of the tunnel and clattered to the ground. Angelus moved silently out of its path by taking a swift step to the left, where he paused before turning to face his attacker. His yellow eyes gleamed in the dark, and he smiled slowly, assured that the picture he presented, teeth and eyes the only bright points in the tunnel, would be suitably terrifying. He'd always had a keen sense of the dramatic.

The man's heart rate increased rapidly, but to his credit, he quickly fired off more shots that Angelus avoided with the grace and speed that were benefits of his advanced age. He wasn't so old as to be unusual by any means, but vampires gained power at vastly different rates, and many enough never made it to an age where they gained enough power as to make cleverness unnecessary. For each arrow he dodged, he took a step closer to the man who was following him. With his well-groomed appearance and smart suit, well-made but not flashy, he appeared the picture of respectable middle age. Probably a barrister or wealthy tradesman by day.

"James," the older man called, his voice low. He should have known that it wouldn't make any difference. Still, Angelus had found that terror made men a bit foolish. He moved then, swifter than he had allowed himself to before, and snapped the man's neck.

Angelus let the first man fall with a splash and stepped back quickly as the body went up in blue flames, which devoured the corpse far quicker than any ordinary fire could have. The younger man, the one he had been ostensibly pursuing earlier reversed course, running away from his dead partner. Angelus didn't doubt that he felt for the other man's death though, not with the sweet scent of grief and pain tickling his nose. It was an easy matter to come up behind him and snatch him by the throat. The man's cry was quickly cut of as Angelus covered his mouth and nose with a large hand and waited until he heard the faltering of the only remaining heartbeat.

He gave the man a shake, and was reassured that he was unconscious. In the dim gloom of the tunnel he could see a certain resemblance between the two, and wondered if they were father and son, uncle and nephew, or related in some other way. He would no doubt find out soon enough. Glancing at the sodden ashy remains of the first man, Angelus shrugged and hauled his quarry over his shoulder, beginning the trek back to his residence. It was time to get some answers.


End file.
